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Vol. 14, No. 1 



CONTENTS 



Summer, 1946 



An Amazing Fantastic Novel 

THE DARK WORLD 

By HENRY HI I I M l 




Edward Bond enters a twin universe of black 
sorcery, where his evil replica, Ganelon, fights for 
a kingdom of slaves, infinite power, and two 
alluring women — Aries and Medea! 9 



Short Stories 

THE MAN WITH X-RAY EYES Edmond Hamilton 62 

A Hall of Fame Classic reprinted by popular demand 

PLANET OF THE BLACK DUST Jack Vance 70 

The pirates held all the cards but one — a man's soul 

THE VICIOUS CIRCLE Polton Cross 79 

Dick Mills oscillates back and forth from past to future 

EXTRA EARTH Ross Rocklynne 88 

President Woodward and his cabinet wage war on six evil men 

Special Features 

THE ETHER VIBRATES Announcements and Letters 6 

REVIEW OF FAN PUBLICATIONS Sergeant Saturn 107 

MEET THE AUTHOR Henry Kuttner 112 



Cover Painting by Earle Bergey — Illustrating "The Dark World" 



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HOLD everything, Frogeyes. Keep 
Wart-ears and Snaggletooth back 
on the other side of the ship. Yes, 
let the Zeno lie unopened for a few Mercuri- 
an minutes (they're a lot shorter than Earth 
minutes). Ye Sarge has a serious (serious? 
Yes, serious!) question to propound to his 
readers. 

STF seems to be definitely on the upgrade 
of late, if only to judge by the staggering 
sacks of mail that are reaching this old space 
canine over the televisor. V-weapons, the 
atomic bomb and radar to the moon and be- 
yond seem definitely to have gripped the 
mass imagination. 

Quiet, Snaggletooth! Masses do so have 
imagination — you merely have to dig deep 
with a ray-powered drill to tap it. Pardon, 
people, while I dip this gremlin in the port 
Xeno vat. 

Here is what the Sarge wants to know- 
since STF is becoming something of a house- 
hold world now that man is straying beyond 
the stratosphere, should the Sarge hammer 
the bung into the Xeno keg, drop his three 
Bemlins through the starboard space lock 
and play it straight? 

Should he keep on kicking the same old 
Neptunian gong around, bad puns, worse 
poetry and all? 

Or should he strain for compromise, soft- 
peddling Wart-ears, Snaggle and Frogeyes, 
sip Xeno only occasionally and break into 
song and ribald laughter only once or twice 
an issue, meanwhile dishing out more sober 
comment? 

Let's Have a Poll 

His fate is in your hands — so let's have a 
reader poll on the subject. 

Okay, Frogeyes, roll out the Xeno. You 
might as well be useful rather than sit and 
sulk because this old astrogator has turned 
the fate of you and your two fellow mobile 
Arcturian shock absorbers over to the fans. 



Let us drink to Chad Oliver, the Crystal 
City (Texas) gazer. 

Old Chad, familiar to recent eons of readers 
as the oliver-oil bearer of the Great South- 
west has accomplished the hitherto impossi- 
ble. He has photographed the Sarge. Yes, 
that's old Saturn towering over his slaves 
on the left end. The cute little fellow with 




the Xeno bladder is Snaggletooth, as any fool 
can plainly see. Frogeyes, next to him, is 
less obvious, since he is squinting into the 
sun, but Wart-ears' nodular cranial protuber- 
ances are plainly in evidence at the right, We 
are all wearing space suits and ready to take 
off. 

Thanks again, Chad, old thing, for letting 
the readers know what ye Sarge really looks 
like — especially after those slanderous draw- 
ings (alleged) that so many other iconoclasts 
have been shipping him. We salute you with 
a triple Xeno. 



OUR NEXT ISSUE 

*jM EALOUS helots of the world to come can 
practice deep breathing against the drape 
shape of things to come. For that ace astro- 
gator of the spaceways. Captain Future, with 
all of his followers in fine fettle, is due to 
show in another rocket-propelled novel when 
again our orbit swings near Earth. 

(Continued on page 98) 




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Wolf tad cowled figure hung in golden mills, watching and waiting, and the iigtiing murmur formed itself into 
words on no human tongue— but I knew thsml (CHAP. Ill 



THE DARK WOULD 

By HENRY KLTTNER 

Edward Bond enters a twin universe of black sorcery, where 
his evil replica, Ganelon, fights for a kingdom of slaves, 
infinite power, and two alluring women—Aries and Medea! 



CHAPTER I 
Fire in the Night 

TO THE north thin smoke made a col- 
umn against the darkening sky. Again 
I £elt the unreasoning fear, the impulse 
toward nightmare flight that had been with 



me for a long time now. I knew it was with- 
out reason. There was only smoke, rising 
from the swamps of the tangled Limberlost 
country, not fifty miles from Chicago, where 
man has outlawed superstition with strong 
bonds of steel and concrete. 

I knew it was only a camper's fire, yet 
I knew it was not. Something, far back in 



AN AMAZING FANTASTIC NOVEL 



9 



10 



STARTLING STORIES 



my mind, knew what the smoke rose from, 
and who stood about the lire, peering my 
way through the trees. 

I looked away, my glance slipping around 
the crowded walls — shelves bearing the ran- 
dom fruit of my uncle's magpie collector's 
instinct. Opium pipes of inlaid work and 
silver, golden chessmen from India, a 
sword. . . . 

Deep memories stirred within me — deep 
panic. I was beneath the sword in two 
strides, tearing it from the wall, my fingers 
cramping hard around the hilt. Not fully 
aware of what I did, I found myself facing 
the window and the distant smoke again. 
The sword was in my fist, but feeling wrong, 
not reassuring, not as the sword ought to 
feel. 

"Easy, Ed," my uncle's deep voice said 
behind me. "What's the matter? You look — 
sorFof wild." 

"It's the wrong sword," I heard myself say- 
ing helplessly. 

Then something like a mist cleared from 
my brain. I blinked at him stupidly, wonder- 
ing what was happening to me. My voice 
answered. 

"It isn't the sword. It should have come 
from Cambodia. It should have been one of 
the three talismans of the Fire King and the 
Water King. Three very great talismans — 
the fruit of cut, gathered at the time of the 
deluge, but still fresh — the rattan with flow- 
ers that never fade, and the sword of Yan, 
the guarding spirit." 

My uncle squinted at me through pipe- 
smoke. He shook his head. 

"You've changed, Ed," he said in his deep, 
gentle voice. "You've changed a lot. I sup- 
pose because of the war — it's to be expected. 
And you've been sick. But you never used 
to be interested in things like that before. 
I think you spend too much time at the li- 
braries. I'd hoped this vacation would help. 
The rest—" 

"I don't want rest!" I said violently. "I 
spent a year and a half resting in Sumatra. 
Doing nothing but rest in that smelly little 
jungle village, waiting and waiting and wait- 
ing." 

I COULD see and smell it now. I could 
feel again the fever that had raged so 
long through me as I lay in the tabooed hut. 

My mind went back eighteen months to 
the last hour when things were normal for 
me. It was in the closing phases of World 



War II, and I was flying over the Sumatran 
jungle. War, of course, is never good or 
normal, but until that one blinding moment 
in the air I had been an ordinary man, sure 
of myself, sure of my place in the world, with 
no nagging fragments of memory too elusive 
to catch. 

Then everything blanked out, suddenly and 
completely. I never knew what it was. There 
was nothing it could have been. My only 
injuries came when the plane struck, and 
they were miraculously light. But I had been 
whole and unhurt when the blindness and 
blankness came over me. 

The friendly Bataks found me as I lay in 
the ruined plane. They brought me through 
a fever and a raging illness with their 
strange, crude, effective ways of healing, but 
I sometimes thought they had done me no 
service when they saved me. And their 
witch-doctor had his doubts, too. 

He knew something. He worked his curi- 
ous, futile charms with knotted string and 
rice, sweating with effort I did not under- 
stand — then. I remembered the scarred, ugly 
mask looming out of the shadow, the hands 
moving in gestures of strange power. 

"Come back, O soul, where thou are lin- 
gering in the wood, or in the hills, or by the 
river. See, I call thee with a ioemba bras, 
with an egg of the fowl Rajah moelija, with 
the eleven healing leaves. . . ." 

Yes, they were sorry for me at first, all of 
them. The witch-doctor was the first to sense 
something wrong, and the awareness spread. 
I could feel it spreading, as their attitude 
changed. They were afraid. Not of me, I 
thought, but of — of what? 

Before the helicopter came to take me back 
to civilization, the witch-doctor told me a lit- 
tle. As much, perhaps, as he dared. 

"You must hide, my son. All your life you 
must hide. Something is searching for you — " 
He used a word I did not understand. " — and 
it has come from the Other World, the ghost- 
lands, to hunt you down. Remember this: all 
magic things must be taboo to you. And if 
that too fails, perhaps you may find a weapon 
in magic. But we cannot help you. ' Our 
powers are not strong enough for that." 

He was glad to see me go. They were all 
glad. 

And after that, unrest. For something had 
changed me utterly. The fever? Perhaps. 
At any rate, I didn't feel like the same man. 
There were dreams, memories — haunting 
urgencies as if I had somehow, somewhere 



12 



STARTLING STORIES 



left some vital job unfinished. . . . 

I found myself talking more freely to my 
uncle. 

"It was like a curtain lifting. A curtain of 
gauze. I saw some things more clearly — 
they seemed to have a different significance. 
Things happen to me now that would have 
seemed incredible — before. Now they don't. 

"I've traveled a lot, you know. It doesn't 
help. There's always something to remind 
me. An amulet in a pawnshop window, a 
knotted string, a cat's-eye opal and two fig- 
ures. I see them in my dreams, over and 
over. And once — 8 

I stopped. 

"Yes?" my uncle prompted softly. 

"It was in New Orleans. I woke up one 
night and there was something in my room, 
very close to me. I had a gun — a special sort 
of gun — under my pillow. When I reached 
for it the — call it a dog — sprang from the 
window. Only it wasn't shaped quite like a 
dog." I hesitated. "There were silver bullets 
in the revolver," I said. 

My uncle was silent for a long moment. I 
knew what he was thinking. 

"The other figure?" he said, finally. 

"I don't know. It wears a hood. I think 
it's very old. And beyond these two — " 

"Yes?" 

"A voice. A very sweet voice, haunting. 
A fire. And beyond the fire, a face I have 
never seen clearly." 

My uncle nodded. The darkness had drawn 
in; I could scarcely see him, and the smoke 
outside had lost itself against the shadow of 
night. But a faint glow still lingered beyond 
the trees. . . Or did I only imagine that? 

I nodded toward the window. 

"I've seen that fire before," I told him. 

"What's wrong with it? Campers make 
fires." 

"No. It's a Need-fire." 

"What the devil is that?" 

"It's a ritual," I said. "Like the Midsum- 
mer fires, or the Beltane fire the Scots used 
to kindle. But the Need-fire is lighted only 
in time of calamity. It's a very old custom." 

MY UNCLE laid hown his pipe and 
leaned forward. 
"What is it, Ed? Do you have any inkling 
at all?" 

"Psychologically I suppose you could call 
it a persecution complex," I said slowly. "I — 
believe in things I never used to. I think 
someone is trying to find me — has found me. 



And is calling. Who it is I don't know. What 
they want I don't know. But a little while 
ago I found out one more thing — this sword." 

I picked the sword up from the table. 

"It isn't what I want," I went on, "But 
sometimes, when my mind is — abstract, 
something from outside floats into it. Like 
the need for a sword. And not any sword — 
just one. I don't know what the sword looks 
like, but I'd know if I held it in my hand." 
I laughed a little. "And if I drew it a few 
inches from the sheath, I could put out that 
fire up there as if I'd blown on it like a can- 
dle-flame. And if I drew the sword all the 
way out — the world would come to an end!" 

My uncle nodded. After a moment, he 
spoke. 

"The doctors." he asked. "What do they 
say?" 

"I know what they would say, if I told 
them," I said grimly. "Pure insanity. If I 
could be sure of that, I'd feel happier. One 
of the dogs was killed last night, you know." 

"Of course. Old Duke. Another dog from 
some farm, eh?" 

"Or a wolf. The same wolf that got into 
my room last night, and stood over me like 
a man, and clipped off a lock of my hair." 

Something flamed up far away, beyond the 
window, and was gone in the dark. The 
Need -fire. 

My uncle rose and stood looking down at 
me in the dimness. He laid a big hand on my 
shoulder. 

"I think you're sick, Ed." 

"You think I'm crazy. Well, I may be. 
Bat I've got a hunch I'm going to know soon, 
one way or the other." 

I picked up the sheathed sword and laid 
it across my knees. We sat in silence for 
what seemed like a long time. 

In the forest to the north, the Need-fire 
aimed steadily. I could not see it. But its 
.tames stirred in my blood — dangerously — 
darkly. 



CHAPTER II 



Call of the Red Witch 



I COULD not sleep. The suffocating 
breathlessness of late summer lay like a 
woollen blanket over me. Presently I went 
into the big room and restlessly searched for 
cigarettes. My uncle's voice came through 



THE DARK WORLD 



13 



an open doorway. 
"All right, Ed?" 

"Yeah- I can't sleep yet. Maybe I'll read." 

I chose a book at random, sank into a re- 
lax er chair, and switched on a lamp. It was 
utterly silent. I could not even hear the faint 
splashing of little waves on the lakeshore. 

There was something I wanted — 

A trained rifleman's hand, at need, will itch 
for the familiar feeling of smooth wood and 
metal. Similarly, my hand was hungry for 
the feel of something — neither gun nor 
sword, I thought. A weapon that I had used 
before. I could not remember what it was. 
Once I glanced at the poker leaning against 
the fireplace, and thought that was it; but 
the flash of recognition was gone instantly. 

The book was a popular novel. I skimmed 
through it rapidly. The dim, faint, pulsing 
in my blood did not wane. It grew stronger, 
rising from sub-sensory levels. A distant 
excitement seemed to be growing deep in my 
mind. 

Grimacing, I rose to return the book to 
its shelf. I stood there for a moment, my 
glance skimming over the titles. On impulse 
I drew out a volume I had not looked at for 
many years, the Book of Common Prayer. 

It fell open in my hands. A sentence blazed 
out from the page. 

I am become as it were a monster unto many. 

I put back the book and returned to my 
chair. I was in no mood for reading. The 
lamp overhead bothered me, and I pressed 
the switch. Instantly moonlight flooded the 
room — and instantly the curious sense of ex- 
pectancy was heightened, as though I had 
lowered a — a barrier. 

The sheathed sword still lay on the win- 
dow-seat. I looked past it, to the clouded 
sky where a golden moon shone. Faint, far 
away, a glimmer showed — the Need-fire, 
blazing in the swampy wilderness of the Lim- 
berlost. 

And it called. 

The golden square of window was hypnotic. 
I lay back in my chair, half-closing my eyes, 
while the sense of danger moved coldly with- 
in my brain. Sometimes before I had felt 
this call, summoning me. And always before 
I had been able to resist. 

This time I wavered. 

The. lock of hair clipped from my head — 
had that given the enemy power? Supersti- 
tion. My logic called it that, but a deep, in- 
ner well of conviction told me that the an- 



cient hair-magic was not merely mummery. 
Since that time in Sumatra I had been far 
less skeptical. And since then I had studied. 

The studies were strange enough, ranging 
from the principles of sympathetic magic to 
the wild fables of lycanthropy and demonol- 
ogy. Yet I was amazingly quick at learning. 

It was as though I took a refresher course, 
to remind myself of knowledge I had once 
known by heart. Only one subject really 
troubled me, and I continually stumbled 
across it, by roundabout references. 

And that was the Force, the entity, dis- 
guised in folk-lore under such familiar names 
as the Black Man, Satan, Lucifer, and such 
unfamiliar names as Kutchie, of the Austral- 
ian Dieris, Tuna, of the Esquimaux, the Afri- 
can Abonsam, and the Swiss Stratteli. 

I did no research on the Black Man — but 
I did not need to. There was a recurrent 
dream that I could not help identifying with 
the dark force that represented evil. I would 
be standing before a golden square of light, 
very much afraid, and yet straining toward 
some consummation that I desired. And deep 
down within that glowing square there would 
be the beginning of motion. I knew there 
were certain ritual gestures to be made be- 
fore the ceremony could be begun, but it 
was difficult to break the paralysis that held 
me. 

A square like the moon-drenched window 
before me — yet not the same. 

For no chill essence of fear thrust itself out 
at me now. Rather, the low humming I 
heard was soothing, gentle as a woman's 
crooning voice. 

THE golden square wavered — shook — and 
Little tendrils of crepuscular light fin- 
gered out toward me. Ever the low humming 
came, alluring and disarming. 

Golden fingers — tentacles — they darted 
here and there as if puzzled. They touched 
lamp, table, carpet, and drew back. They — 
touched me. 

Swiftly they leaped forward now — avid! 
I had time for a momentary pulse of alarm 
before they wrapped me in an embrace like 
golden sands of sleep. The humming grew 
louder. And I responded to it. 

As the skin of the flayed satyr Marsyas 
thrilled at the sound of his native Phrygian 
melodies! I knew this music. I knew this — 
chant! 

Stole through the golden glow a crouching 
shadow — not human — with amber eyes and 



14 



STARTLING STORIES 



a bristling mane — the shadow of a wolf. 

It hesitated, glanced over its shoulder ques- 
tioningly. And now another shape swam into 
view, cowled and gowned so that nothing of 
its face or body showed. But it was small — 
small as a child. 

Wolf and cowled figure hung in the golden 
mists, watching and waiting. The sighing 
murmur altered. Formed itself into syllables 
and words. Words in no human tongue, but — 
I knew them. 

"Ganelon! I call you, Ganelon! By the 
seal in your blood — hear me!" 

Ganelon! Surely that was my name. I 
knew it so well. 

Yet who called me thus? 

"I have called you before, but the way was 
not open. Now the bridge is made. Come 
to me, Ganelon!" 

A sigh. 

The wolf glanced over a bristling shoulder, 
snarling. The cowled figure bent toward me. 
I sensed keen eyes searching me from the 
darkness of the hood, and an icy breath 
touched me. 

"He has forgotten, Medea," said a sweet, 
high-pitched voice, like the tone of a child. 

Again the sigh. "Has he forgotten me? 
Ganelon, Ganelon! Have you forgotten the 
arms of Medea, the lips of Medea?" 

I swung, cradled in the golden mists, half 
asleep. 

"He has forgotten," the cowled figure said. 

"Then let him come to me nevertheless. 
Ganelon! The Need-fire burns. The gate- 
way lies open to the Dark World. By fire 
and earth, air and darkness, I summon you! 
Ganelon!" 

"He has forgotten." 

"Bring him. We have the power, now." 

The golden sands thickened. Flame-eyed 
wolf and robed shadow swam toward me. 
I felt myself lifted — moving forward, not of 
my own volition. 

The window swung wide. I saw the sword, 
sheathed and ready. I snatched up the weap- 
on, but I could not resist that relentless tide 
that carried me forward. Wolf and whisper- 
ing shadow drifted with me. 

"To the Fire. Bring him to the Fire. " 

"He has forgotten, Medea." 

"To the Fire, Edeyrn. To the Fire." 

Twisted tree-limbs floated past me. Far 
ahead I saw a flicker. It grew larger, nearer. 
It was the Need-fire. 

Faster the tide bore me. Toward the fire 
itself— 



Not to Caer Llyr! 

From the depths of my mind the cryptic 
words spewed. Amber-eyed wolf whirled to 
glare at me; cowled shadow swept in closer 
on the golden stream. I felt a chill of deadly 
cold drive through the curling mists. 

"Caer Llyr," the cloaked Edeyrn whis- 
pered in the child's sweet voice. "He remem- 
bers Caer Llyr — but does he remember 
Llyr?" 

"He will remember! He has been sealed 
to Llyr. And, in Caer Llyr, the Place of 
Llyr, he will remember." 

The Need-fire was a towering pillar a few 
yards away. I fought against the dragging 
tide. 

I lifted my sword — threw the sheath away. 
I cut at the golden mists that fettered me. 

Under the ancient steel the shining fog- 
wraiths shuddered and were torn apart — and 
drew back. There was a break in the hum- 
ming harmony; for an instant, utter silence. 

Then— 

"Matholch!" the invisible whisperer cried. 
"Lord Matholch!" 

The wolf crouched, fangs bared. I aimed 
a cut at its snarling mask. It avoided the 
blow easily and sprang. 

BT CAUGHT the blade between its teeth 
and wrenched the hilt from my grip. 
The golden fogs surged back, folding m» 
in their warm embrace. 
"Caer Llyr," they murmured. 
The Need-fire roared up in a scarlet foun- 
tain. 

"Caer Llyr!" the flames shouted. 

And out of those fires rose — a woman! 

Hair dark as midnight fell softly to her 
knees. Under level brows she flashed one 
glance at me, a glance that held question and 
a fierce determination. She was loveliness 
incarnate. Dark loveliness. 

Lilith. Medea, witch of Colchis! 

And— 

"The gateway closes," the child-voice of 
Edeyrn said. 

The wolf, still mouthing my sword, 
crouched uneasily. But the woman of the 
fire said no word. 

She held out her arms to me. 

The golden clouds thrust me forward, into 
those white arms. 

Wolf and cowled shadow sprang to flank 
us. The humming rose to a deep-pitched 
roar — a thunder as of crashing worlds. 

"It is difficult, difficult," Medea said. "Help 



THE DARK WORLD 

me, Edeyrn. Lord Matholch." 

The fires died. Around us was not the 
moonlit wilderness of the Limberlost, but 
empty grayness, a featureless grayness that 
stretched to infinity. Not even stars showed 
against that blank. 

And now there was fear in the voice of 
Edeyrn. 

"Medea. I have not the — power. 1 stayed 
loo long in the Earth-world." 

"Open the gate!" Medea cried. "Thrust 
it open but a little way, or we stay here 
between the worlds forever!" 

The wolf crouched, snarling. T felt energy 
pouring out of his beast-body. His brain that 
was not the brain of a beast. 

Around us the golden clouds were dissi- 
pating. 

The grayness stole in. 

"Ganelon," Medea said. "Ganelon! Help 
me!" 

A door in my mind opened. A formless 
darkness stole in. 

I felt that deadly, evil shadow creep 
through me, and submerge my mind under 
ebon waves. 

"He has the power," Edeyrn murmured. 
"He was sealed to Llyr. Let him call on — 
Llyr." 

"No. No. I dare not. Llyr?" But Medea's 
face was turned to me questioningly. 

At my feet the wolf snarled and strained, 
as though by sheer brute strength it might 
wrench open a gateway between locked 
worlds. 

Now the black sea submerged me utterly. 
My thought reached out and was repulsed 
by the dark horror of sheer infinity, stretched 
forth again and — 

Touched — something ! 

Llyr . . . Llyr.' 

"The gateway opens," Edeyrn said. 

The gray emptiness was gone. Golden 
clouds thinned and vanished. Around me, 
white pillars rose to a vault far, far above. 
We stood on a raised dais upon which curi- 
ous designs were emblazoned. 

The tide of evil which had flowed through 
me had vanished. 

But, sick with horror and self-loathing, I 
dropped to my knees, one arm shielding my 
eyes. 

I had called on — Llyr.' 

AiPts clung to me in silence 
For a momenl while, above hef 
head, t looked down over the 
valley, knowing her dreams 
could nevei come true 
ICHAP. X> 



STARTLING STORIES 



CHAPTER m 
Locked Worlds 



ACHING in every muscle, I woke and 
lay motionless, staring at the low ceil- 
ing. Memory flooded back. I turned my head, 
realizing that I lay on a soft couch padded 
with silks and pillows. Across the bare, 
simply furnished room was a recessed win- 
dow, translucent, for it admitted light, but 
I could see only vague blurs through it. 

Seated beside me, on a three-legged stool, 
was the dwarfed, robed figure I knew was 
Edeyrn. 

Not even now could I see the face; the 
shadows within the cowl were too deep. I 
felt the keen glint of a watchful gaze, though, 
and a breath of something unfamiliar — cold 
and deadly. The robes were saffron, an ugly 
hue that held nothing of life in the harsh 
folds. Staring, I saw that the creature was 
less than four feet tall, or would have been 
had it stood upright. 

Again I heard that sweet, childish, sexless 
voice. 

"Will you drink. Lord Ganelon? Or eat?" 

I threw back the gossamer robe covering 
me and sat up. I was wearing a thin tunic 
of silvery softness, and trunks of the same 
material. Edeyrn apparently had not moved, 
but a drapery swung apart in the wall, and 
a man came silently in, bearing a covered 
tray. 

Sight of him was reassuring. He was a 
big man, sturdily muscled, and under a 
plumed Etruscan-styled helmet his face was 
tanned and strong. I thought so till I met his 
eyes. They were blue pools in which horror 
had drowned. An ancient fear, so familiar 
that it was almost submerged, lay deep in 
his gaze. 

Silently he served me and in silence with- 
drew. 

Edeyrn nodded toward the tray. 

"Eat and drink. You will be stronger. 
Lord Ganelon." 

There were meats and bread, of a sort, and 
a glass of colorless liquid that was not water, 
as I found on sampling it. I took a sip, set 
down the chalice, and scowled at Edeyrn. 

"I gather that I'm not insane," I said. 

"You are not. Your soul has been else- 
where — you have been in exile — but you are 
home again now." 



"In Caer Llyr?" I asked, without quite 
knowing why. 

Edeyrn shook the saffron robes. 

"No. But you must remember?" 

"I remember nothing. Who are you? What's 
happened to me?" 

"You know that you are Ganelon?" 

"My name's Edward Bond." 

"Yet you almost remembered — at the 
Need-fire," Edeyrn said. "This will take time. 
And there is danger always. Who am I? I 
am Edeyrn — who serves the Coven." 

"Are you — " 

"A woman," she said, in that childish, 
sweet voice, laughing a little. "A very old 
woman, the oldest of the Coven now, except 
for one. And as for the Coven, it has shrunk 
from its original thirteen. There is Medea, 
of course, Lord Matholch — " I remembered 
the wolf — "Ghast Rhymi, who has more pow- 
er than any of us, but is too old to use it And 
you, Lord Ganelon, or Edward Bond, as you 
name yourself. Five of us in all now. Once 
there were hundreds, but even I cannot re- 
member that time, though Ghast Rhymi can, 
if he would." 

I put my head in my hands. 

"Good heavens, I don't know! Your words 
mean nothing to me. I don't even know 
where I am!" 

"Listen," she said, and I felt a soft touch 
on my shoulder. "You must understand this. 
You have lost your memories." 

"That's not true." 

"It is true, Lord Ganelon. Your true mem- 
ories were erased, and you were given arti- 
ficial ones. All you think you recall now, of 
your life on the Earth-world— all that is false. 
It did not happen. At least, not to you." 

"The Earth-world? I'm not on Earth?" 

"This is a different world," she said. "But 
it is your own world. You came from here 
originally. The Rebels, our enemies, exiled 
you and changed your memories." 

"That's impossible." 

"Come here," Edeyrn said, and went to 
the window. She touched something, and the 
pane grew transparent. I looked over her 
shrouded head at a landscape I had never 
seen before. 

Or had I? 

UNDER a dull, crimson sun the rolling 
forest below lay bathed in bloody light 
I was looking down from a considerable 
height, and could not make out details, but 
it seemed to me that the trees were oddly 



THE DAB 

shaped and that they were moving. A river 
ran toward distant hills. A few white towers 
rose from the forest. That was all. Yet the 
scarlet, huge sun had told me enough. This 
was not the Earth I knew. 
"Another planet?" 

"More than that," she said. "Few in the 
Dark World know this. But 1 know — and 
there are some others who have learned, un- 
luckily for you. There are worlds of proba- 
bility, divergent in the stream of time, but 
identical almost, until the branches diverge 
too far." 

"I don't understand that." 

"Worlds coexistent in time and space — but 
separated by another dimension, the variant 
of probability. This is the world that might 
have been yours had something not hap- 
pened, long ago. Originally the Dark World 
and the Earth-world were one, in space and 
time. Then a decision was made — a very vital 
decision, though I am not sure what it was. 
From that point the time-stream branched, 
and two variant worlds existed where there 
had been only one before. 

"They were utterly identical at first, ex- 
cept that in one of them the key decision 
had not been made. The results were very 
different. It happened hundreds of years ago, 
but the two variant worlds are still close to- 
gether in the time stream. Eventually they 
will drift farther apart, and grow less like 
each other. Meanwhile, they are similar, so 
much so that a man on the Earth-world may 
have his twin in the Dark World." 

"His twin?" 

"The man he might have been, had the key 
decision not been made ages ago in his world. 
Yes, twins, Ganelon — Edward Bond. Do you 
understand now?" 

I returned to the couch and sat there, 
frowning. 

"Two worlds, coexistent. I can understand 
that, yes. But I think you mean more — that 
a double for me exists somewhere." 

"You were born in the Dark World. Your 
double, the true Edward Bond, was born on 
Earth. But we have enemies here, woods- 
runners, rebels, and they have stolen enough 
knowledge to bridge the gulf between time- 
variants. We ourselves learned the method 
only lately, though once it was well-known 
here, among the Coven. 

"The rebels reached out across the gulf 
and sent you — sent Ganelon — into the Earth- 
world, so that Edward Bond could come here, 
among them. They — " 



I WORLD . 17 

"But why?" I interrupted. "What reason 
could they have for that?" 

Edeyrn turned her hooded head toward 
me, and I felt, not for the first time, a strange, 
remote chill as she fixed her unseen gaze 
upon my face. 

"What reason?" she echoed in her sweet, 
cool voice. "Think, Ganelon. See if you re- 
member." 

I thought. I closed my eyes and tried to 
submerge my conscious mind, to let the 
memories of Ganelon rise up to the surface 
if they were there at all. I could not yet ac- 
cept this preposterous thought in its entirety, 
but certainly it would explain a great deal 
if it were true. It would even explain — I 
realized suddenly— that strange blanking out 
in the plane over the Sumatra jungle, that 
moment from which everything had seemed 
so wrong. 

Perhaps that was the moment when Ed- 
ward Bond left Earth, and Ganelon took his 
place — both twins too stunned and helpless 
at the change to know what had happened, 
or to understand. 

But this was impossible! 

"I don't remember!" I said harshly. "It 
can't have happened. I fenouj who I am! I 
know everything that ever happened to Ed- 
ward Bond. You can't tell me that all that is 
only illusion. It's too clear, too real!" 

"Ganelon, Ganelon," Edeyrn crooned to 
me, a smile in her voice. "Think of the rebel 
tribes. Try, Ganelon. Try to remember why 
they did what they did to you. The woods- 
runners, Ganelon — the disobedient little men 
in green. The hateful men who threatened 
us. Ganelon, surely you remember!" 

It may have been a form of hypnotism, I 
thought of that later. But at that moment, 
a picture did swim into my mind. I could see 
the green-clad swarms moving through the 
woods, and the sight of them made me hot 
with sudden anger. For that instant I was 
Ganelon, and a great and powerful lord, de- 
fied by these underlings not fit to tie my 
shoe. 

"Of course you hated them," murmured 
Edeyrn. She may have seen the look on my 
face. I felt the stiffness of an unfamiliar twist 
of feature as she spoke. I had straightened 
where I sat, and my shoulders had gone back 
arrogantly, my lip curling a feeling of scorn. 
So perhaps she did not read my mind at all. 
What I thought was plain in my face and 
bearing. 

"Of course you punished them when you 



18 



STARTLING STORIES 



could," she went on. "It was your right and 
duty. But they duped you, Ganelon. They 
were cleverer than you. They found a door 
that would turn on a temporal axis and 
thrust you into another world. On the far 
side of the door was Edward Bond who did 
not hate them. So they opened the door." 

fjSDEYRN'S voice rose slightly and in it 
J| I detected a note of mockery. 
"False memories, false memories, Ganelon. 
You put on Edward Bond's past when you 
put on his identity. But he came into our 
world as he was, free of any knowledge of 
Ganelon. He has given us much trouble, my 
friend, and much bewilderment. At first we 
did not guess what had gone wrong. It 
seemed to us that as Ganelon vanished from 
our Coven, a strange new Ganelon appeared 
among the rebels, organizing them to fight 
against his own people." She laughed softly. 
"We had to rouse Ghast Rhymi from his 
sleep to aid us. But in the end, learning the 
method of door-opening, we came to Earth 
and searched for you, and found you. And 
brought you back. This is your world, Lord 
Ganelon! Will you accept it?" 
I shook my head dizzily. 
"It isn't real. I'm still Edward Bond." 
"We can bring back your true memories. 
And we will. They came to the surface for 
a moment, I think, just now. But it will take 
time. Meanwhile, you are one of the Coven, 
and Edward Bond is back upon Earth in his 
old place. Remembering — " She laughed 
softly. "Remembering, I am sure, all he left 
undone here. But helpless to return, or med- 
dle again in what does not concern him. But 
we have needed you, Ganelon. How badly 
we have needed you!" 

"What can I do? I'm Edward Bond." 
"Ganelon can do much — when he remem- 
bers. The Coven has fallen upon evil days. 
Once we were thirteen. Once there were 
other Covens to join us in our Sabbats. Once 
we ruled this whole world, under Great 
Llyr. But Llyr is falling asleep now. He 
draws farther and farther away from his 
worshippers. By degrees the Dark World 
has fallen into savagery. And, of all the 
Covens, only we remain, a broken circle, 
dwelling close to Caer Llyr where the Great 
One sleeps beyond his Golden Window." 
She fell silent for a moment. 

"Sometimes I think that Llyr does not 
sleep a.t all," she said. "I think he is with- 
drawing, little by little, into some farther 



world, losing his interest in us whom he cre- 
ated. But he returns!" She laughed. "Yes, 
he returns when the sacrifices stand before 
his Window. And so long as he comes back, 
the Coven has power to force its will upon 
the Dark World. 

"But day by day the forest rebels grow 
stronger, Ganelon. With our help, you were 
gathering power to oppose them — when you 
vanished. We needed you then, and we need 
you more than ever now. You are one of the 
Coven, perhaps the greatest of us all. With 
Matholch you were — " 

"Wait a minute," I said. "I'm still con- 
fused. Matholch? Was he the wolf I saw?" 

"He was." 

"You spoke of him as though he were a 
man." 

"He is a man — at times. He is lycanthropic 
A shape-changer." 

"A werewolf? That's impossible. It's a 
myth, a bit of crazy folklore." 

"What started the myth?" Edeyrn asked. 
"Long ago, there were many gateways 
opened between the Dark World and Earth. 
On Earth, memories of those days survive 
as superstitious tales. Folklore. But with 
roots in reality." 

"It's superstition, nothing else," I said flat- 
ly. "You actually mean that werewolves, 
vampires and all that, exist" 

"Ghast Rhymi could tell you more of this 
than I can. But we cannot wake him for such 
a matter. Perhaps I — well, listen. The body 
is composed of cells. These are adaptable 
to some extent. When they are made even 
more adaptable, when metabolism is accel- 
erated sporadically, werewolves come into 
being." 

The sweet, sexless child's voice spoke on 
from the shadow of the hood. I began to un- 
derstand a little. On Earth, college biology 
had showed me instances of cells run wild- - 
malignant tumors , and the like. And there 
were many cases of "wolf-men," with thick 
hair growing like a pelt over Ihr-m. If the 
cells could adapt themselves quickly, strangn 
things might occur. 

But the bones? Specialized osseous-tissue, 
not the rigidly brittle bones of the normal 
man. A psysiological structure that could, 
theoretically, so alter itself that it would bo 
wolf instead of man, was an astounding 
theory ! 

"Part of it is illusion, of course," Edeyrn 
said. "Matholch is not as bestial in form as? 
he seems. Yet he is a shape-changer, and 



TIIE DARK WORLD 



his form does alter." 

"But how?" I asked. "How did he get this 
power?" 

For the first time Edeyrn seemed to hesi- 
tate. "He is— a mutation. There are many 
mutations among us, here in the Dark World. 
Some are in the Coven, but others are else- 
where." 

"Are you a mutation?" I asked her. 
"Yes." 

"A — shape-changer?" 

"No," Edeyrn said, and the thin body un- 
der the robe seemed to shake a little. "No, 
I cannot change my shape, Lord Ganelon. 
You do not remember my — my powers?" 

"I do not" 

"Yet you may find them useful when the 
Rebels strike again," she said slowly. "Yes, 
there are mutations among us, and perhaps 
that is the chief reason why the probability- 
rift came ages ago. There are no mutants on 
Earth — at least not of our type. Matholch is 
not the only one." 

"Am I a mutant?" I asked very softly. 

rE cowled head shook. 
"No. For no mutant may be sealed to 
Llyr. As you have been sealed. One of the 
Coven must know the key to Caer Llyr." 

The cold breath of fear touched me again. 
No, not fear. Horror, the deadly, monstrous 
breathlessness that always took me when the 
name of Llyr was mentioned. 
I forced myself to say, "Who is Llyr?" 
There was a long silence. 
"Who speaks of Llyr?" a deep voice behind 
me asked. "Better not to lift liiat veil, 
Edeyrn!" 

"Yet it may be necessary," Edeyrn said. 
I turned, and saw, framed against the dark 
portiere, the rangy, whipcord figure of a 



man, clad as I was in tunic and trunks. His 
red, pointed beard jutted; the half -snarling 
curve of his full lips reminded me of some- 
thing. Agile grace was in every line of his 
wiry body. 

Yellow eyes watched me with wry amuse- 
ment. 

"Pray it may not be necessary," the man 
said. "Well, Lord Ganelon? Have you for- 
gotten me, too?" 

"He has forgotten you, Matholch," Edeyrn 
said. "At least in this form!" 

Matholch— the wolf! The shape-changer! 

He grinned. 

"It is Sabbat tonight," he said. "The Lord 
Ganelon must be prepared for it Also, I 
think there will be trouble. However, that 
is Medea's business, and she asks if Ganelon 
is awake. Since he is, let us see her now." 

"Will you go with Matholch?" Edeyrn 
asked me. 

"I suppose so." I said. The red-beard 
grinned again. 

"Ai, you have forgotten, Ganelon! In the 
old days you'd never have trusted me behind 
your back with a dagger." 

"You always knew better than to strike," 
Edeyrn said. "If Ganelon ever called on 
Llyr. it would be unfortunate for you!" 

"Well, I joked," Matholch said carelessly. 
"My enemies must be strong enough to give 
me a fight so I'll wait till your memory comes 
back, Lord Ganelon. Meanwhile the Coven 
has its back to the wall, and I need you as 
badly as you need me. Will you come?" 

"Go with him," Edeyrn said. "You are in 
no danger — wolfs bark is worse than wolf's 
bite — even though this is not Caer Llyr." 

I thought I sensed a hidden threat in her 
words. Matholch shrugged and held the cur- 
tain aside to let me pass. [Turn page] 




21) 



STARTLING ST0R1KS 



"Few dare to threaten a shape-changer," 
he said over his shoulder. 

"I dare," Edeyrn said, from the enigmatic 
shadows of her saffron cowl. And I remem- 
bered that she was a mutant too — though not 
a lycanthrope, like the red-bearded were- 
wolf striding beside me along the vaulted 



What was — Edeyrn? 



CHAPTER IV 
Matholch — and Medea 



rp TO NOW the true wonder of the situ- 
ation had not really touched me yet. 
The anaesthesia of shock had dulled me. As 
a soldier — caught in the white light of a flare 
dropped from an overhead plane — freezes 
into immobility, so my mind still remained 
passive. Only superficial thoughts were mov- 
ing there, as though, by concentration on im- 
mediate needs. I could eliminate the incred- 
ible fact that I was not on the familiar, solid 
ground of Earth. 

But it was more than this. There was a 
curious, indefinable familiarity about these 
groined, pale-walled halls through which I 
strode beside Matholch, as there had been a 
queer familiarity about the twilit landscape 
stretching to forested distance beneath the 
window of my room. 
Edeyrn — Medea — the Coven. 
The names had significance, like words in 
a language I had once known well, but had 
forgotten. 

The half-loping, swift walk of Matholch, 
the easy swing of his muscular shoulders, 
the snarling smile on his red-bearded lips — 
these were not new to me. 

He watched me furtively out of his yellow 
eyes. Once we paused before a red-figured 
drapery, and Matholch, hesitating, thrust the 
curtain aside and gestured me forward. 

I took one step — and stopped. I looked at 
him. 

He nodded as though satisfied. Yet there 
was still a question in his face. 

"So you remember a little, eh? Enough to 
know that this isn't the way to Medea. How- 
ever, come along, for a moment. I want to 
talk to you." 

As I followed him up a winding stair, I 
suddenly realized that he had not spoken in 
English. But I had understood him, as I had 



understood Edeyrn and Medea. 
Ganelon? 

We were in a tower room, walled with 
transparent panes. There was a smoky, sour 
odor in the air, and gray tendrils coiled up 
from a brazier set in a tripod in the middle 
of the chamber. Matholch gestured me to 
one of the couches by the windows. He 
dropped carelessly beside me. 

"I wonder how much you remember," he 
said. 

I shook my head. 

"Not much. Enough not to be too — trust- 
ing." 

"The artificial Earth- memories are still 
strong, then. Ghast Rhymi said you would 
remember eventually, but that it would take 
time. The false writing on the slate of your 
mind will fade, and the old, true memories 
will come back. After a while." 

Like a palimpsest, I thought — manuscript 
with two writings upon its parchment. But 
Ganelon was still a stranger ; I was still 
Edward Bond. 

"I wonder," Matholch said slowly, staring 
at me. "You spent much time exiled. I 
wonder if you have changed, basically. Al- 
ways before — you hated me, Ganelon. Do 
you hate me now?" 

"No," I said. "At least, I don't know. I 
think I distrust you." 

"You have reason. If you remember at 
all. We have always been enemies, Ganelon, 
though bound together by the needs and 
laws of the Coven. I wonder if we need be 
enemies any longer?" 

"It depends. I'm not anxious to make en- 
emies — especially here." 

Matholch's red brows drew together. 

"Ai, that is not Ganelon speaking! In the 
old days, you cared nothing about how many 
enemies you made. If you have changed so 
much, danger to us all may result." 

"My memory is gone," I said. "I don't 
understand much of this. It seems dream- 
like." 

Now he sprang up and restlessly paced 
the room. "That's well. If you become the 
old Ganelon again, we'll be enemies again. 
That I know. But if Earth-exile has changed 
you — altered you — we may be friends. It 
would be better to be friends. Medea would 
not like it; I do not think Edeyrn would. As 
for Ghast Rhymi — " He shrugged. "Ghast 
Rhymi is old— old. In all the Dark World, 
Ganelon, you have the most power. Or can 
have. But it would mean going to Caer Llyr." 



THE I) Alt 

Matholch stooped to look into my eyes. 

"In the old days, you knew what that 
meant. You were afraid, but you wanted the 
power. Once you went to Caer Llyr — to be 
sealed. So there is a bond between you and 
Llyr — not consummated yet. But it can be, 
if you wish it." 

"What is Llyr?" I asked. 

"Pray that you will not remember that," 
Matholch said. "When Medea talks to you — 
beware when she speaks of Llyr. I may be 
friend of yours or enemy, Ganelon, but for 
my own sake, for the sake of the Dark 
World — even for the sake of the rebels— I 
warn you: do not go to Caer Llyr. No matter 
what Medea asks. Or promises. At least be 
wary till you have your memories back." 

"What is Llyr?" I said again. 

MATHOLCH swung around, his back 
to me. "Ghast Rhymi knows, I think. 
I do not. Nor do I want to. Llyr is — is evil — 
and is hungry, always. But what feeds his 
appetite is — is — " He stopped. 

"You have forgotten," he went on after a 
while. "One thing I wonder. Have you for- 
gotten how to summon Llyr?" 

I did not answer. There was a darkness in 
my mind, an ebon gate against which my 
questioning thoughts probed vainly. 
Llyr — Llyr? 

Matholch cast a handful of powdery sub- 
stance into the glowing brazier. 

"Can you summon Llyr?" he asked again, 
his voice soft. ''Answer, Ganelon. Can you?" 

The sour smoke-stench grew stronger. The 
darkness in my head sprang apart, riven, as 
though a gateway had opened in the shadow. 
I — recognized that deadly perfume. 

I stood up, glaring at Matholch. I took two 
steps, thrust out my sandaled foot, and over- 
turned the brazier. Embers scattered on the 
stone floor. The red-beard turned a startled 
face to me. 

I reached out. gripped Matholch's tunic, 
and shook him till his teeth rattled together. 
Hot fury filled me — and something more. 

That Matholch should try his tricks on me! 

A stranger had my tongue. I heard myself 
speaking. 

"Save your spells for the slaves and 
helots," I snarled. "I tell you what I wish 
to tell you — no more than that! Burn your 
filthy herbs elsewhere, not in my presence!" 

Red-bearded jaw jutted. Yellow eyes 
flamed. Matholch's face altered, flesh flow- 
ing like water, dimly seen in the smoke- 



; WORLD 21 

clouds that poured up from the scattered 
embers. 

Yellow tusks threatened me through the 
gray mists. 

The shape-changer made a wordless noise 
in his throat — the guttural sound a beast 
might make. Wolf-cry! A wolf mask glared 
into mine! 

The smoke swam away. The illusion — 
illusion? — was gone. Matholch, his face re- 
laxing from its snarling lines, pulled gently 
free from my grip. 

"You — startled me, Lord Ganelon," he said 
smoothly. "But I think that I have had a 
question answered, whether or not these 
herbs — " He nodded toward the overturned 
brazier. " — had anything to do with it." 

I turned toward the doorway. 

"Wait," Matholch said. "I took something 
from you, a while ago." 

I stopped. 

The red-beard came toward me, holding 
out a weapon — a bared sword. 

"I took this from you when we passed 
through the Need-fire," he said. "It is 
yours." 

I accepted the blade. 

Again I moved toward the curtained arch- 
way. 

Behind me Matholch spoke. 

"We are not enemies yet, Ganelon," he 
said gently. "And, if you are wise, you will 
not forget my warning. Do not go to Caer 
Llyr." 

I went out. Holding the sword, I hurried 
down the winding stairway. My feet found 
their path without conscious guidance. The 
— intruder— in my brain was still strong. A 
palimpsest. And the blurred, erased writing 
was becoming visible, as though treated with 
some strong chemical. 

The writing that was my lost memory. 

The castle — how did I know it was a 
castle? — was a labyrinth. Twice I passed 
silent soldiers standing guard, with a familiar 
shadow of fear in their eyes — a shadow that, 
I thought, deepened as they saw me. 

I went on, hurrying along a pale-amber 
hallway. I brushed aside a golden curtain 
and stepped into an oval room, dome-ceil- 
inged, walled with pale, silken draperies. A 
fountain spurted, its spray cool on my cheek. 
Across the chamber, an archway showed the 
outlines of leafy branches beyond. 

I went on through the arch. I stepped out 
into a walled garden. A garden of exotic 
flowers and bizarre trees. 



22 STARTLING 

The blooms were a riot of patternless 
color, like glowing jewels against the dark 
earth. Ruby and amethyst, crystal-clear and 
milky white, silver and gold and emerald, 
the flowers made a motionless carpet. But 
the trees were not motionless. 

Twisted and gnarled as oaks, their black 
boles and branches were veiled by a luxuri- 
ant cloud of leafage, virulent green. 

A stir of movement rippled through that 
green curtain. The trees roused to aware- 
ness. 

I saw the black branches twist and writhe 
slowly — 

SATISFIED, their vigilance relaxed. They 
were motionless again. They — knew me. 
Beyond that evil orchard the dark sky 
made the glowing ember of the sun more 
brilliant by contrast. 
The trees stirred again. 
Ripples of unrest shook the green. A ser- 
pentine limb, trailing a veil of leaves, lashed 
out — struck — whipped back into place. 

Where it had been a darting shape ran 
forward, ducking and twisting as the guard- 
ian trees struck savagely at it. 

A man, in a tight-fitting suit of earth- 
brown and forest-green, came running to- 
ward me, his feet trampling the jewel-flowers. 
His hard, reckless face was alight with ex- 
citement and a kind of triumph. He was 
empty-handed, but a pistol-like weapon of 
some sort swung at his belt. 

"Edward!" he said urgently, yet keeping 
his voice low. "'Edward Bond!" 

I knew him. Or I knew him for what he 
was. I had seen dodging, furtive, green-clad 
figures like his before, and an anger already 
familiar surged over me at the very sight of 
him. 

Enemy, upstart! One of the many who 
had dared work their magic upon the great 
Lord Ganelon. 

I felt the heat of rage suffuse my face, 
and the blood rang in my ears with this un- 
familiar, yet well-known fury. My body 
stiffened in the posture of Ganelon — shoul- 
ders back, lip curled, chin high. I heard 
myself curse the fellow in a voice that was 
choked and a language I scarcely remem- 
bered. And I saw him draw back, disbelief 
vivid upon his face. His hand dropped to his 
belt. 

"Ganelon?" he faltered, his eyes narrow 
as they searched mine. "Edward, are you 
with us or are you Ganelon again?" 



STORIES 



CHAPTER V 
Searlef Witch 



GRIPPED in my right hand I still held 
the sword. I cut at him savagely by 
way of answer. He sprang back, glanced 
once over his shoulder, and drew his weapon. 
I followed his glance and saw another green 
figure dodging forward among the trees. It 
was smaller and slenderer — a girl, in a tunic 
the color of earth and forest. Her black hair 
swung upon her shoulders. She was tugging 
at her belt as she ran, and the face she 
turned to me was ugly with hate, her teeth 
showing in a snarl. 

The man before me was saying something. 
"Edward, listen to me!" he was crying. 
"Even if you're Ganelon, you remember Ed- 
ward Bond! He was with us — he believed in 
us. Give us a hearing before it's too late! 
Aries could convince you, Edward! Come 
to Aries. Even if you're Ganelon, let me 
take you to Aries!" 

"It's no use, Ertu." the voice of the girl 
cried thinly. She was struggling with the 
last of the trees, whose flexible bough-tips 
still clutched to stop her. Neither of them 
tried now to keep their voices down. They 
were shouting, and I knew they must rouse 
the guards at any moment, and I wanted to 
kill them both myself before anyone came 
to forestall me by accident. I was hungry 
and thirsty for the blood of these enemies, 
and in that moment the name of Edward 
Bond was not even a memory. 

"Kill him. Ertu!" cried the girl. "Kill him, 
or stand out of the way! I know Ganelon!" 

I looked at her and took a fresh grip on 
my sword. Yes, she spoke the truth. She 
knew Ganelon. And Ganelon knew her, and 
remembered dimly that she had reason for 
her hate, I had seen that face before, con- 
torted with fury and despair. I could not 
recall when or where or why, but she looked 
familiar. 

The man Ertu drew his weapon reluctantly. 
To him I was still at least the image of a 
friend. I laughed exultantly and swung at 
him again with the sword, hearing it hiss 
viciously through the air. This time I drew 
blood. He stepped back again, lifting his 
weapon so that I looked down its black 
barrel. 

"Don't make me do it," he said between his 



THE DARK WORLD 



teeth. "This will pass. You have been Ed- 
ward Bond — you will be again. Don't make 
me kill you, Ganelon!" 

I lifted the sword, seeing him only dimly 
through a ruddy haze of anger. There was a 
great exultation in me. I could already see 
the fountain of blood that would leap from 
his severed arteries when my blade com- 
pleted its swing. 

I braced my body for that great full- 
armed blow! 

And the sword came alive in my hand. It 
leaped and shuddered against my fist. 

Impossibly — in a way I cannot describe — 
that blow reversed itself. All the energy I 
was braced to expend upon my enemy re- 
coiled up the sword, up my arm, crashed 
against my own body. A violent explosion 
of pain and shock sent the garden reeling. 
The earth struck hard against my knees. 

Mist cleared from my eyes. I was still 
Ganelon, but a Ganelon dizzy from some- 
thing more powerful than a blow. 

I was kneeling on the grass, braced with 
one hand, shaking the throbbing fingers of 
my sword-hand and staring at the sword 
that lay a dozen feet away, still faintly glow- 
ing. 

It was Matholeh's doing — I knew that! I 
should have remembered how little I could 
trust that shifting, unstable wolfling. I had 
laid hands upon him in his tower-room — I 
should have known he would have his re- 
venge for that. Even Edward Bond — soft 
fool that he was — would have been wise 
enough not to accept a gift from the shape- 
changer. 

There was no time now for anger at 
Matholch, though. I was looking up into 
Ertu's eyes, and into the muzzle of his 
weapon, and a look of decision grew slowly 
in his face as he scanned mine. 

"Ganelon!" he said, almost whispering. 
"Warlock!" 

He tilted the weapon down at me, his fin- 
ger moving on the trigger. 

"Wait, Ertu!" cried a thin voice behind 
him. "Wait — let me!" 

I looked up, still dazed. It had all hap- 
pened so quickly that the girl was still strug- 
gling in the edge of the trees, though she 
cleared them as I looked and lifted her own 
weapon. Behind it her face was white and 
blazing with relentless hate. "Let me!" she 
cried again. "He owes me this!" 

I was helpless. I knew that even at this 
distance she would not miss. I saw the glare 



S3 



of fury in her eyes and I saw the muzzle 
waver a little as her hand shook with rage, 
but I knew she would not miss me. I thought 
of a great many things in that instant — con- 
fused memories of Ganelon's and of Edward 
Bond's surged together through my mind. 

Then a great hissing like a wind swept up 
among the trees behind the girl. They all 
swayed toward her more swiftly than trees 
have any right to move, stooping and strain- 
ing and hissing with a dreadful vicious 
avidity. Ertu shouted something inarticulate. 
But I think the girl was too angry to hear 
or see. 

She never knew what happened. She could 
only have felt the great bone-cracking sweep 
of the nearest branch, reaching out for her 
from the leaning tree. She fired as the blow 
struck her, and a white-hot bolt ploughed up 
the turf at my knee. I could smell tile char- 
ring grass. 

ITB^HE girl screamed thinly once as the avid 
M boughs writhed together over her. The 
limbs threshed about her in a furious welter, 
and I heard one clear and distinct snap — a 
sound I had heard before, I knew, in this 
garden. The human spine is no more than a 
twig in the grip of those mighty houghs. 

Ertu was stunned for one brief instant. 
Then he whirled to me, and this time I knew 
his finger would not hesitate on the trigger. 

But time had run out for the two woods- 
people. He was not fully turned when there 
came a laugh, cool and amused, from behind 
me. I saw loathing and hatred flash across 
Ertu's bronzed face, and the weapon whirled 
away from me and pointed toward someone 
at my back. But before he could press the 
trigger something like an arrow of white 
light sprang over my shoulder and struck 
him above the heart. 

He dropped instantly, his mouth frozen in 
a snarling square, his eyes staring. 

I turned, getting slowly to my feet. Medea 
stood there smiling, very slim and lovely in a 
close-fitting scarlet gown. In her hand was a 
small black rod, still raised. Her purple eyes 
met mine. 

"Ganelon," she murmured in an infinitely 
caressing voice. "Ganelon." And still holding 
my gaze with hers, she clapped her hands 
softly. 

Silent, swift-moving guardsmen came and 
lifted the motionless body of Ertu. They 
carried him away. The trees stirred, whis- 
pered — and fell silent. 



STARTLING STORIES 



"You have remembered," Medea said. 
"Ganelon is ours again. Do you remember 
me — Lord Ganelon?" 

Medea, witch of Colchis! Black and white 
and crimson, she stood there smiling at me, 
her strange loveliness stirring old, forgotten 
memories in my blood. No man who had 
known Medea could ever forget her wholly. 
Not till time ended. 

But wait! There was something more about 
Medea that I must remember. Something 
that made even Ganelon a little doubtful, a 
little cautious. Ganelon? Was I Ganelon 
again? I had been wholly my old self when 
the woodspeople stood before me, but now I 
was uncertain. 

The memories ebbed. While the lovely 
witch stood smiling at me, not guessing, all 
that had made me so briefly Ganelon dropped 
from my mind and body like a discarded 
cloak. Edward Bond stood there in my 
clothing, staring about the clearing and re- 
membering with dismay and sick revulsion 
what had just been happening here. 

For a moment I turned away to hide from 
Medea what my face must betray if she saw 
it. I felt dizzy with more than memory. The 
knowledge that two identities shared my body 
was a thought even more disturbing than the 
memory of what I had just done in the grip 
of Ganelon's strong, evil will. 

This was Ganelon's body. There could be 
no doubt of it now. Somewhere on Earth 
Edward Bond was back in his old place, 
but the patterns of his memory still over- 
laid my mind, so that he and I shared a 
common soul, and there was no Ganelon 
except briefly, in snatches, as the memories 
that were rightfully mine — mine? — returned 
to crowd out Edward Bond. 

I hated Ganelon. I rejected all he thought 
and was. My false memories, the heritage 
from Edward Bond, were stronger in me than 
Ganelon. I was Edward Bond — now! 

Medea's caressing voice broke in upon my 
conflict, echoing her question. 

"Do you remember me, Lord Ganelon?" 

I turned to her, feeling the bewilderment 
on my own face, so that my very thoughts 
were blurred. 

"My name is Bond," I told her stubbornly. 

She sighed. 

"You will come back," she said. "It will 
take time, but Ganelon will return to us. As 
you see familiar things again, the life of the 
Dark World, the life of the Coven, the doors 
of your mind will open once more. You will 



remember a little more tonight, I think, at 
the Sabbat." Her red smile was suddenly al- 
most frightening. 

"Not since I went into the Earth-world 
has a Sabbat been held, and it is long past 
time," she went on. "For in Caer Llyr there 
is one who stirs and grows hungry for his 
sacrifice." 

She looked at me piercingly, the purple 
eyes narrowing. 

"Do you remember Caer Llyr, Ganelon?" 

The old sickness and horror came over me 
as she repeated that cryptic name. 

Llyr — Llyr! Darkness, and something stir- 
ring beyond a golden window. Something 
too alien to touch the soil that human feet 
touched, something that should never share 
the same life humans lived. Touching that 
soil, sharing that life, it defiled them so that 
they were no longer fit for humans to share. 
And yet, despite my revulsion, Llyr was 
terribly intimate, too! 

I knew, I remembered — 

"I remember nothing," I told her shortly. 
For in that particular moment, caution was 
born in me. I could not trust anyone, not 
even myself. Least of all Ganelon — myself, 
I did remember, but I must not let them 
know. Until I was clearer as to what they 
wanted, what they threatened, I must keep 
this one secret which was all the weapon I 
had. 

LLYR! The thought of him — of it— crys- 
tallized that decision in my mind. For 
somewhere in the murk of Ganelon's past 
there was a frightening link with Llyr. I 
knew they were trying to push me into that 
abyss of oneness with Llyr, and I sensed that 
even Ganelon feared that. I must pretend to 
be more ignorant than I really was until the 
thing grew clearer in my memory. 

I shook my head again. "I remember 
nothing." 

"Not even Medea?" she whispered, and 
swayed toward me. There was sorcery about 
her. My arms received that red and white 
softness as if they were Ganelon's arms, not 
mine. But it was Edward Bond's hps which 
responded to the fierce pressure of her lips. 

Not even Medea? 

Edward Bond or Ganelon, what was it to 
me then? The moment was enough. 

But the touch of the red witch wrought a 
change in Edward Bond. It brought a sense 
of strangeness, of utter strangeness, to him — 
to me. I held her lovely, yielding body in my 



THE DAI 

arms, but something alien and unknown 
stooped and hovered above me as we touched. 
I surmised that she was holding herself in 
check — restraining a— a demon that pos- 
sessed her — a demon that fought to free it- 
self. 

"Ganelon!" 

Trembling, she pressed her palms against 
my chest and thrust free. Tiny droplets stood 
on her pale forehead. 

"Enough!" she whispered. "You know!" 

"What, Medea?" 

And now stark horror stood in those pur- 
ple eyes. 

"You have forgotten!" she said. "You 
have forgotten me. forgotten who 1 am, what 
I am!" 



CHAPTER VI 
The Ride to Caer Secaire 



LATER, in the apartments that had been 
Ganelon's, I waited for the hour of 
Sabbat. And as I waited, I paced the floor 
restlessly. Ganelon's feet, pacing Ganelon's 
floor, but the man who walked here was 
Edward Bond. Amazing, I thought, how the 
false memory -patterns of another person, 
impressed upon Ganelon's clean-sponged 
brain, had changed him from himself to — me. 

I wondered if I would ever be sure again 
which personality was myself. I hated and 
distrusted Ganelon, now. But I knew how 
easily the old self slipped back, in which I 
would despise Edward Bond. 

And yet, to save myself, I must call back 
Ganelon's memories. I must know more than 
those around me guessed I knew, or I thought 
Ganelon and Bond together might be lost. 
Medea would tell me nothing. Edeyrn would 
tell me nothing. Matholch might tell me 
much, but he would be lying. 

I scarcely dared go with them to this 
Sabbat, which I thought would be the Sabbat 
of Llyr, because of that strange and terrible 
link between Llyr and myself. There would 
be sacrifices. 

How could I be sure I, myself, was not 
destined for the altar before that— that gold- 
en window? 

Then, for a brief but timeless moment 
Ganelon came back, remembering fragmen- 
tary things that flitted through my mind too 
swiftly to take shape. I caught only terror— 



£ WORLD 25 

terror and revulsion and a hideous, hopeless 
longing. . . . 

Dared I attend the Sabbat? 

But I dared not fail to attend, for if I re- 
fused I must admit I knew more about what 
threatened Ganelon than Edward Bond 
should know. And my only frail weapon 
against them now was what little I recalled 
thai was secret from them. I must go. Even 
if the altar waited me, I must go. 

There were the woodspeople. They were 
outlaws, hunted through the forests by Coven 
soldiers. Capture meant enslavement — I re- 
membered the look of still horror in the eyes 
of those living dead men who were Medea's 
servants. As Edward Bond, I pitied them, 
wondered if I could do anything to save them 
from the Coven. The real Edward Bond had 
been living among them for a year and a 
half, organizing resistance, fighting the Coven. 
On Earth, I knew, he must be raging help- 
lessly now. haunted by the knowledge of 
work unfinished and friends abandoned to 
the mercies of dark magic. 

Perhaps I should seek the woodspeople out. 
Among them, at least, I would be safe while 
my memories returned. But when they re- 
turned — why, then Ganelon would rage, run- 
ning amuck among them, mad with his own 
fury and arrogance. Dared I subject the 
woodspeople to the danger that would be the 
Lord Ganelon when Ganelon's memories 
came back? Dared I subject myself to their 
vengeance, for they would be manv against 
one? 

I could not go and I could not stay. There 
was safety nowhere for the Edward Bond 
who might become Ganelon at any moment. 
There was danger everywhere. From the 
rebel woodspeople, from every member of 
this Coven. 

It might come through the wild and mock- 
ing Matholch. 

Or through Edeyrn, who had watched me 
unseen with her chilling gaze in the shadows 
of her cowL 

Through Ghast Rhymi, whoever he was. 
Through Aries, or through the red witch! 

Yes, most of all, I thought, through Medea 
— Medea, whom I loved! 

At dusk, two maidens — helot-servants — 
came, bringing food and a change of gar- 
ments. I ate hurriedly, dressed in the plain, 
fine- textured tunic and shorts, and drew 
about me the royal blue cloak they had car- 
ried. A mask of golden cloth I dangled un- 
decidedly, until one of the maidens spoke: 



STARTLING STORIES 



"We are to guide you when you are ready, 
Lord," she reminded me. 

"I'm ready now," I said, and followed the 
pair. 

A pale, concealed lighting system of some 
sort made the hallways bright. I was taken 
to Medea's apartment, with its singing foun- 
tain under the high dome. The red witch 
was there breathtakingly lovely in a clinging 
robe of pure white. Above the robe her 
naked shoulders gleamed smoothly. She 
wore a scarlet cloak. I wore a blue one. 

The helots slipped away. Medea smiled at 
me, but I noticed a wire-taut tenseness about 
her, betrayingly visible at the corners of her 
lips and in her eyes. A pulse of expectation 
seemed to beat out from her. 

"Are you ready, Ganelon?" 

"I don't know," I said. "It depends, I 
suppose. Don't forget that my memory's 
gone." 

"It may return tonight, some of it any- 
way," she said. "But you will take no part 
in the ritual, at least until after the sacrifice. 
It will be better if you merely watch. Since 
you do not remember the rites, you'd best 
leave those to the rest of the Coven." 

"Matholch?" 

"And Edeyrn," Medea said. "Ghast Rhymi 
will not come. He never leaves this castle, 
nor will he unless the need is very great. He 
is old, too old." 

I FROWNED at the red witch. "Where 
are we going?" I asked. 
"To Caer Secaire. I told you there has been 
no sacrifice since I went to Earth-world to 
search for you. It is past time." 
"What am I supposed to do?" 
She put out a slender hand and touched 
mine. 

"Nothing, till the moment comes. You will 
know then. But meantime you must watch — 
no more than that. Put on your mask now." 

She slipped on a small black mask that 
left the lower half of her face visible. 

I donned the golden mask. I followed 
Medea to a curtained archway, and through 
iL 

We were in a courtyard. Two horses stood 
waiting, held by grooms. Medea mounted one 
and I the other. 

Overhead the sky had darkened. A huge 
door lifted in the wall, Beyond, a roadway 
stretched toward the distant forest. 

The somber, angry disc of the red sun, 
swollen and burning with a dull fire, touched 



the crest of the mountain barrier. 

Swiftly it sank. Darkness came across the 
sky with a swooping rush. A million points 
of white Ught became visible. In the faint 
starshine Medea's face was ghost-pale. 

Through the near-darkness her eyes 
glowed. 

Faintly, and from far away, I heard a thin, 
trumpeting call. It was repeated. 

Then silence — and a whispering that rose 
to a rhythmic thudding of shod hoofs. 

Past us moved a figure, a helot guardsman, 
unmasked, unspeaking, his gaze turned to the 
waiting gateway. 

Then another — and another. Until three 
score of soldiers had gone past, and after 
them nearly three score of maidens — the 
slave-girls. 

On a light, swift-looking roan stallion 
Matholch came by, stealing a glance at me 
from his yellow eyes. A cloak of forest 
green swirled from his shoulders. 

Behind him, the tiny form of Edeyrn, on a 
pony suited to her smallness. She was still 
cowled, her face hidden, but she now wore a 
cloak of purest yellow. 

Medea nodded at me. We touched our 
heels to the horses' flanks and took our 
places in the column. Behind us other figures 
rode, but I could not see them clearly. It 
was too dark. 

Through the gateway in the wall we went, 
still in silence save for the clopping of hoofs. 
We rode across the plain. The edges of the 
forest reached out toward us and swallowed 
us. 

I glanced behind. An enormous bulk 
against the sky showed the castle I had left. 

We rode under heavy, drooping branches. 
These were not the black trees of Medea's 
garden, but they were not normal either. I 
could not tell why an indefinable sense of 
strangeness reached out at me from the dim 
shadows above and around us. 

After a long time the ground dipped at our 
feet, and we saw below us the road's end. 
The moon had risen belatedly. By its yellow 
glare there materialized from the deep valley 
below us a sort of tower, a dark, windowless 
structure almost Gothic in plan, as though it 
had thrust itself from the black earth, from 
the dark grove of ancient and alien trees. 

Caer Secaire! 

I had been here before. Ganelon of the 
Dark World knew this spot well. But I did 
not know it; I sensed only that unpleasant 
familiarity, the deja vu phenomenon, known 



THE DARK WORLD 



to all psychologists, coupled with a curious 
depersonalization, as though my own body, 
my mind, my very soul, felt altered and 
strange. 

Caer Secaire. S£caire? Somewhere, in my 
studies, I had encountered that name. An 
ancient rite, in — in Gascony, that was it! 

The Mass of Saint Secaire! 

And the man for whom that Black Mass 
is said — dies. That, too, I remembered. Was 
the Mass to be said for Ganelon tonight? 

This was not the Place of Llyr. Somehow 
I knew that. Caer Llyr was elsewhere and 
otherwise, not a temple, not a place visited 
by worshipers. But here in Caer Secaire, as 
in other temples throughout the Dark Land, 
Llyr might be summoned to his feasting, and, 
summoned, would come. 

Would Ganelon be his feast tonight? I 
clenched the reins with nervous hands. There 
was some tension in the air that I could not 
quite understand. Medea was calm beside 
me. Edeyrn was always calm. Matholch, I 
could swear, had nothing to take the place of 
nerves. Yet in the night there was tension, 
as if it breathed upon us from the dark trees 
along the roadside. 

Before us, in a silent, submissive flock, the 
soldiers and the slave-girls went. Some of 
the soldiers were armed. They seemed to be 
herding the rest, their movements mechanical, 
as if whatever had once made them free- 
willed humans was now asleep. I knew with- 
out being told the purpose for which those 
men and maidens were being driven toward 
Caer Secaire. But not even these voiceless 
mindless victims were tense. They went 
blindly to their doom. No, the tension came 
from the dark around us. 

Someone, something, waiting in the night! 



CHAPTER VII 
Men of the Forest 



FROM out of the dark woods, suddenly, 
startlingly, a trumpet-note rang upon the 
air. In the same instant there was a wild 
crashing in the underbrush, an outburst of 
shouts and cries, and the night was laced by 
the thin lightnings of unfamiliar gunfire. The 
road was suddenly thronging with green-clad 
figures who swarmed about the column of 
slaves ahead of us, grappling with the guards, 
dosing in between us and the mindless vic- 



tims at our forefront. 

My horse reared wildly. I fought him ha: d, 
forcing him down again, while stirrings of 
the old red rage I had felt before mounted 
in my brain. Ganelon, at sight of the forest 
people, struggled to take control. Him too I 
fought. Even in my surprise and bewilder- 
ment, I saw in this interruption the possibility 
of succor. I cracked my rearing horse be- 
tween the ears with clubbed rein-loops and 
struggled to Iseep my balance. 

Beside me Medea had risen in her stirrups 
and was sending bolt after arrowy bolt into 
the green melee ahead of us, the dark rod 
that was her weapon leaping in her hand with 
every shot. Edeyrn had drawn aside, taking 
no part in the fight. Her small cowled figure 
sat crouching in the saddle, but her very 
stillness was alarming. I had the feeling she 
could end the combat in a moment if she 
chose. 

As for Matholch, his saddle was empty. 
His horse was already crashing away through 
the woods, and Matholch had hurled himself 
headlong into the fight, snarling joyously. 
The sound sent cold shudders down my 
spine. I could see that his green cloak cov- 
ered a shape that was not wholly manlike, 
and the green people veered away from him 
as he plunged through their throngs toward 
the head of the column. 

The woodsfolk were trying a desperate 
rescue. I realized that immediately. I saw 
too that they dared not attack the Coven 
itself. All their efforts were aimed at over- 
powering the robotlike guards so that the 
equally robotlike victims might be saved from 
Llyr. And I could see that they were failing. 

For the victims were too apathetic to 
scatter. All will had long ago been drained 
away from them. They obeyed orders — that 
was all. And the forest people were leader- 
less. In a moment or two I reabzed that, and 
knew why. It was my fault. Edward Bond 
may have planned this daring raid, but 
through my doing, he was not here to guide 
them. And already the abortive fight was 
nearly over. 

Medea's flying fiery arrows struck down 
man after man. The mindless guards fired 
stolidly into the swarms that surged about 
them, and Matholch's deep-throated, exultant, 
snarling yells as he fought his way toward 
his soldiers were more potent than weapons. 
The raiders shrank back from the sound as 
they did not shrink from gunfire. In a mo- 
ment, I knew, Matholch would reach his men, 



28 



STARTLING STORIES 



and organized resistance would break the 
back of this unguided mutiny. 

For an instant my own mind was a fierce 
battle-ground. Ganelon struggled to take 
control, and Edward Bond resisted him 
savagely. 

As Ganelon I knew my place was beside 
the wolfling; every instinct urged me for- 
ward to his side. But Edward Bond knew 
better. Edward Bond too knew where his 
rightful place should be. 

I shoved up my golden mask so that my 
face was visible. I drove my heels into my 
horse's sides and urged him headlong down 
the road behind Matholch. The sheer weight 
of the horse gave me an advantage Matholch, 
afoot, did not have. The sound of drumming 
hoofs and the lunging shoulders of my mount 
opened a way for me. I rose in the stirrups 
and shouted with Ganelon's deep, carrying 
roar: 

"Bond! Bond! Edward Bond!" 

The rebels heard me. For an instant the 
battle around the column wavered as every 
green-clad man paused to look back. Then 
they saw their lost leader, and a great echo- 
ing hail swept their ranks. 

"Bond! Edward Bond!" 

The forest rang with it, and there was new 
courage in the sound. Matholch's wild snarl 
of rage was drowned in the roar of the forest 
men as they surged forward again to the 
attack. 

Out of Ganelon's memories I knew what I 
must do. The foresters were dragging down 
guard after guard, careless of the gunfire 
that mowed their disordered ranks. But only 
I could save the prisoners. Only Ganelon's 
voice could pierce the daze that held them. 

I kicked my frantic horse forward, knock- 
ing guards left and right, and gained the 
head of the column. 

"In the forest!" I shouted. "Waken and 
run! Run hard!" 

There was an instant forward surge as the 
slaves, still tranced in their dreadful dream, 
but obedient to the voice of a Coven member, 
lurched through the thin rank of their guard. 
The whole shape of the struggle changed as 
the core of it streamed irresistibly forward 
across the road and into the darkness of the 
woods. 

The green-clad attackers fell back to let the 
slaves through. It was a strange, voiceless 
flight they made. Not even the guards 
shouted, though they fired and fired again 
upon the retreating column, their faces as 



blank as if they slept without dreams. 

My flesh crawled as I watched that sight — 
the men and women fleeing for their lives, 
the armed soldiers shooting them down, and 
the faces of them all utterly without expres- 
sion. Voiceless they ran and voiceless they 
died when the gun-bolts found them. 

I wrenched my horse around and kicked 
him in the wake of the fleeing column. My 
golden mask slipped sidewise and I tore it 
off, waving to the scattering foresters, the 
moonlight catching brightly on its gold. 

"Save yourselves!" I shouted, "Scatter and 
follow me!" 

Behind me I heard Matholch's deep snarl, 
very near. I glanced over one shoulder as 
my horse plunged across the road. The 
shape- changer's tall figure faced me across 
the heads of several of his soldiers. His face 
was a wolf-like snarling mask, and as I 
looked he lifted a dark rod like the one 
Medea had been using. I saw the arrow of 
white fire leap from it, and ducked in the 
saddle. 

The movement saved me. I felt a strong 
tug at my shoulders where the blue cape 
swirled out, and heard the tear of fabric as 
the bolt ripped through it and plunged hissing 
into the dark beyond. My horse lunged on 
into the woods. 

Then the trees were rustling all about me, 
and my bewildered horse stumbled and 
tossed up his head, whinnying in terror. 
Beside me in the dark a soft voice spoke 
softly. 

"This way," it said, and a hand seized the 
bridle. 

I let the woodsmen lead me imo the dark- 
ness. 

It was just dawn when our weary column 
came at last to the end of the journey, to the 
valley between cliffs where the woodsmen 
had established their stronghold. All of us 
were tired, though the blank-faced slaves we 
had rescued trudged on in an irregular col- 
umn behind me, unaware that their feet were 
torn and their bodies drooping with ex- 
haustion. 

The forest men slipped through the trees 
around us, alert for followers. We had no 
wounded with us. The bolts the Coven shot 
never wounded. Whoever was struck fell 
dead in his tracks. 

In the pale dawn I would not have known 
the valley before me for the headquarters 
of a populous clan. It looked quite empty 
except for scattered boulders, mossy slopes, 



THE DAI 

and a small stream that trickled down the 
middle, pink in the light of sunrise. 

ONE of the men took my horse then, and 
we went on foot up the valley, the 
robot slaves crowding behind. We seemed to 
be advancing up an empty valley. But when 
we had gone half its length, suddenly the 
woodsman at my right laid his hand upon my 
arm, and we paused, the rabble behind us 
jostling together without a murmur. Around 
me the woodsmen laughed softly. I looked 
up. 

She stood high upon a boulder that over- 
hung the stream. She was dressed like a 
man in a tunic of soft, velvety green, cross- 
belted with a weapon swinging at each hip, 
but her hair was a fabulous mantle stream- 
ing down over her shoulders and hanging 
almost to her knees in a cascade of pale gold 
that rippled like water. A crown of pale 
gold leaves the color of the hair held it 
away from her face, and under the shining 
chaplet she looked down and smiled at us. 
Especially she smiled at me — at Edward 
Bond. 

And her face was very lovely. It had the 
strength and innocence and calm serenity of 
a saint's face, but there was warmth and 
humor in the red lips. Her eyes were the 
same color as her tunic, deep green, a color 
I had never seen before in my own world. 

"Welcome back, Edward Bond," she said 
in a clear, sweet gently hushed voice, as if 
she had spoken softly for so many years that 
even now she did not dare speak aloud. 

She jumped down from the boulder, very 
lightly, moving with the sureness of a wild 
creature that had lived all its lifetime in the 
woods, as indeed I suppose she had. Her 
hair floated about her as lightly as a web, 
settling only slowly about her shoulders as 
she came forward, so that she seemed to 
walk in a halo of her own pale gold. 

I remembered what the woodsman Ertu 
had said to me in Medea's garden before her 
arrow struck him down. 

"Aries could convince you, Edward! Even 
if you're Ganelon, let me take you to Aries!" 

I stood before Aries now. Of that I was 
sure. And if I had needed any conviction 
before that the woodsmen's cause was mine, 
this haloed girl would have convinced me 
with her first words. But as for Ganelon — 

How could I know what Ganelon would 
do? 

That question was answered for me. Be- 



£ WORLD 29 

fore my lips could frame words, before I 
could plan my next reaction, Aries came to- 
ward me, utterly without pretense or con- 
sciousness of the watching eyes. She put her 
hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the 
mouth. 

And that was not like Medea's kiss — no! 
Aries' lips were cool and sweet, not warm 
with the dangerous, alluring honey-musk of 
the red witch. That intoxication of strange 
passion I remembered when I had held Medea 
in my arms did not sweep me now. There 
was a— a purity about Aries, an honesty that 
made me suddenly, horribly homesick for 
Earth. 

She drew back. Her moss-green eyes met 
mine with quiet understanding. She seemed 
to be waiting. 

"Aries," I said, after a moment 

And that seemed to satisfy her. The vague 
question that had begun to show on her face 
was gone. 

"I wondered," she said. "They didn't hurt 
you, Edward?" 

Instinctively I knew what I had to say, 

"No. We hadn't reached Caer Secaire. If 
the woodsmen hadn't attacked — well, there'd 
have been a sacrifice." 

Aries reached out and lifted a corner of 
my torn cloak, her slim fingers light on the 
silken fabric. 

"The blue robe." she said. "Yes, that is 
the color the sacrifice wears. The gods cast 
their dice on our side tonight, Edward. Now 
as for this foul thing, we must get rid of it." 

Her green eyes blazed. She ripped the 
cloak from me, tore it across and dropped it 
to the ground. 

"You will not go hunting again alone," 
she added. "I told you it was dangerous. 
But you laughed at me. I'll wager you didn't 
laugh when the Coven slaves caught you! 
Or was that the way of it?" 

I nodded. A slow, deep fury was rising 
within me. So blue was the color of sacrifice, 
was it? My fears hadn't been groundless. 
At Caer Secaire I would have been the offer- 
ing, going blindly to my doom. Matholch 
had known, of course. Trust his wolf-mind 
to appreciate the joke. Edeyrn, thinking her 
cool, inhuman thoughts in the shadow of her 
hood, she had known too. And Medea? 

Medea! 

She had dared betray me! Me, Ganelon! 
The Opener of the Gate, the Chosen of 
Llyr, the great Lord Ganelon! They dared! 
Black thunder roared through my brain. 



30 STARTLIN 

I thought: By Llyr, but they'll suffer for 
this! They'll crawl to my feet like dogs. 
Begging my mercy! 

Rage had opened the floodgates, and Ed- 
ward Bond was no more than a set of thin 
memories that slipped from me as the blue 
cloak had slipped from my shoulders — the 
blue cloak of the chosen sacrifice, on the 
shoulders of the Lord Ganelon! 

I BLINKED blindly around the green-clad 
circle. How had I come here? How 
dared these woodsrunners stand in defiance 
before me? Blood roared in my ears and the 
woodland swam around me. When it steadied 
I would draw my weapon and reap these 
upstarts as a mower reaps his wheat. 
But wait! 

First, the Coven, my sworn comrades, had 
betrayed me. Why, why? They had been 
glad enough to see me when they brought 
me back from the other world, the alien land 
of Earth. The woodsmen I could slay when- 
ever I wished it — the other problem came 
first. And Ganelon was a wise man. I might 
need these woods-people to help me in my 
vengeance. Afterward — ah, afterward! 

I strove hard with memory. What could 
have happened to turn the Coven against me? 
I could have sworn this had not been Medea's 
original intention — she had welcomed me 
back too sincerely for that. Matholch could 
have influenced her, but again, why, why? 
Or perhaps it was Edeyrn, or the Old One 
himself, Ghast Rhymi. In any case, by the 
Golden Window that opens on the Abyss, 
they'd learn their error! 

"Edward!" a woman's voice, sweet and 
frightened, came to me as if from a great 
distance. I fought my way up through a 
whirlpool of fury and hatred. I saw a pale 
face haloed in floating hair, the green eyes 
troubled, I remembered. 

Beside Aries stood a stranger, a man whose 
cold gray eyes upon mine provided the shock 
I needed to bring me back to sanity. He 
looked at me as if he knew me — knew Gane- 
lon. I had never seen the man before. 

He was short and sturdy, young-looking 
in spite of the gray flecks in his close-cropped 
beard. His face was tanned so deeply it 
had almost the color of the brown earth. In 
his close-fitting green suit he was the perfect 
personification of a woodrunner, a glider 
through the forest, unseen and dangerous. 
Watching the powerful flex of his muscles 
when he moved, I knew he would be a bad 



I STORIES 

antagonist. And there was deep antagonism 
in the way he looked at me. 

A white, jagged scar had knotted his right 
cheek, quirking up his thin mouth so that 
he wore a perpetual crooked, sardonic half- 
grin. There was no laughter in those gelid 
gray eyes, though. 

And I saw that the circle of woodsmen had 
drawn back, ringing us, watching. 

The bearded man put out his arm and 
swept Aries behind him. Unarmed, he 
stepped forward, toward me. 

"No, Lorryn," Aries cried. "Don't hurt 
him." 

Lorryn thrust his face into mine. 
"Ganelon!" he said. 

And at the name a whisper of fear, of 
hatred, murmured around the circle of 
woodsfolk. I saw furtive movements, hands 
slipping quietly toward the hilts of weapons. 
I saw Aries' face change. 

The old-time cunning of Ganelon came to 
my aid. 

"No," I said, rubbing my forehead. "I'm 
Bond, all right. It was that drug the Coven 
gave me. It's still working." 

'"What drug?" 

"I don't know," I told Lorryn. "It was in 
Medea's wine that I drank. And the long 
journey tonight has tired me." 

I took a few unsteady paces aside and 
leaned against the boulder, shaking my head 
as though to clear it. But my ears were alert. 
The low murmur of suspicion was dying. 

Cool fingers touched mine. 

"Oh, my dear," Aries said, and whirled on 
Lorryn. "Do you think I don't know Edward 
Bond from Ganelon? Lorryn, you're a fool!" 

"If the two weren't identical, we'd never 
have switched them in the first place," Lor- 
ryn said roughly. "Be sure, Aries. Very 
sure!" 

Now the whispering grew again. "Better 
to be sure," the woodsmen murmured. "No 
risks, Aries! If this is Ganelon, he must die." 

The doubt came back into Aries' green 
eyes. She thrust my hands away and stared 
at me. And the doubt did not fade. 

I gave her glance for glance. 

"Well. Aries?" I said. 

Her lips quivered. 

"It can't be. I know, but Lorryn is right. 
You know that; we can take no risks. To 
have the devil Ganelon back, after all that's 
happened, would be disastrous." 

Devil, I thought. The devil Ganelon. Gan- 
elon had hated the woodsfolk, yes. But 



THE DAR 

now he had another, greater hatred. In his 
hour of weakness, the Coven had betrayed 
him. The woodsfolk could wait Vengeance 
could not. It would be the devil Ganelon 
who would bring Caer Secaire and the Castle 
crashing down about the ears of the Coven! 

Which would mean playing a careful 
game! 

"Yes, Lorryn is right," I said. "You've no 
way of knowing I'm not Ganelon. Perhaps 
you know it, Aries — " I smiled at her " — but 
there must be no chances taken. Let Lorryn 
test me." 

"Well?" Lorryn said, looking at Aries. 

Doubtfully she glanced from me to the 
bearded man. 

"I — very well, I suppose." 

Lorryn barked laughter. 

"My tests might fail. But there is one who 
can see the truth. Freydis." 

"Let Freydis test me," I said quickly, and 
was rewarded by seeing Lorryn hesitate. 

"Very well," he said at last. "If I'm wrong, 
I'll apologize now. But if I'm right, I'll kill 
you, or try to. There's only one other life 
I'd enjoy taking the more, and the shape- 
changer isn't in my reach — yet." 

AGAIN Lorryn touched h i s scarred 
cheek. At the thought of Lord Math- 
olch, warmth came into his gray eyes; a dis- 
tant ember burned for an instant there. I 
had seen hatred before. But not often had I 
seen such hatred as Lorryn held for — the 
wolfiing? 

Well, let him kill Matholch, if he could! 
There was another, softer throat in which I 
wanted to sink my fingers. Nor could all her 
magic protect the red witch when Ganelon 
came back to Caer Secaire, and broke the 
Coven like rotten twigs in his hands! 

Again the black rage thundered up like 
a deluging tide. That fury had wiped out 
Edward Bond — but it had not wiped out 
Ganelon's cunning. 

"As you like, Lorryn," I said quietly. 
' Let's go to Freydis now." 

He nodded shortly. Lorryn on one side 
of me, Aries, puzzled and troubled, on the 
other, we moved up the valley, surrounded 
by the woodsfolk. The dazed slaves surged 
ahead. 

The canyon walls closed in. A cave-mouth 
showed in the granite ahead. 

We drew up in a rough semi-circle facing 
that cavern. Silence fell, broken by the 
whispering of leaves in the wind. The red 



I WORLD 31 

sun was rising over the mountain wall. 

Out of the darkness came a voice, deep, 
resonant, powerful. 

"I am awake," it said. "What is your 
need?" 

"Mother Freydis, we have helots captured 
from the Coven," Aries said quickly. "The 
sleep is on them." 

"Send them in to me." 

Lorryn gave Aries an angry look. He 
pushed forward. 

"Mother Freydis!" he called. 

"I hear." 

"We need your sight. This man, Edward 
Bond — I think he is Ganelon, come back from 
the Earth-world where you sent him." 

There was a long pause. 

"Send him into me," the deep voice finally 
said. "But first the helots." 

At a signal from Lorryn the woodsfolk 
began herding the slaves toward the cave- 
mouth. They made no resistance. Empty- 
eyed, they trooped toward that cryptic dark- 
ness and, one by one, vanished. 

Lorryn looked at me and jerked his head 
toward the cavern. I smiled. 

"When I come out, we shall be friends 
again as before." I said. 

His eyes did not soften. 

"Freydis must decide that." 

I turned to Aries. 

"Freydis shall decide," I said. "But there 
is nothing to fear, Aries. Remember that. 
I am not Ganelon." 

She watched me, afraid, unsure, as I 
stepped back a pace or two. 

The silent throng of woodsfolk stared, wait- 
ing warily. They had their weapons ready. 

I laughed softly and turned. 

I walked toward the cave-mouth. 

The blackness swallowed me. 



CHAPTER VIII 

Freydis 



STRANGE to relate, I felt sure of myself 
as I walked up the sloping ramp in the 
darkness. Ahead of me, around a bend, I 
could see the glimmer of firelight, and I 
smiled. It had been difficult to speak with 
these upstart woodrunners as if they were 
my equals, as if I were still Edward Bond. 
It would be difficult to talk to their witch- 



32 STARTLI> 

woman as if she had as much knowledge as 
a Lord of the Coven. Some she must have, 
or she could never have managed the transfer 
which had sent me into the Earth-world and 
brought out Edward Bond. But I thought I 
could deceive her or anyone these rebels had 
to offer me. 

The small cave at the turn of the corridor 
was empty except for Freydis. Her back was 
to me. She crouched on her knees before a 
small fire that burned, apparently without 
fuel, in a dish of crystal. She wore a white 
robe, and her white hair lay in two heavy 
braids along her back. I stopped, trying to 
feel like Edward Bond again, to determine 
what he would have said in this moment. 
Then Freydis turned and rose. 

She rose tremendously. Few in the Dark 
World can look me in the eye, but Freydis' 
clear blue gaze was level with my own. Her 
great shoulders and great, smooth arms were 
as powerful as a man's, and if age was upon 
her, it did not show in her easy motions or 
in the timeless face she turned to me. Only 
in the eyes was knowledge mirrored, and I 
knew as I met them that she was old indeed. 

"Good morning, Ganelon," she said in her 
deep, serene voice. 

I gaped. She knew me as surely as if she 
read my mind. Yet I was sure, or nearly 
sure, that no one in the Dark World could do 
that. For a moment I almost stammered. 
Then pride came to my rescue. 

"Good day, old woman," I said. "I come, 
to offer you a chance for your life, if you 
obey me. We have a score to settle, you and 
I." 

She smiled. 

"Sit down, Covenanter," she said. "The 
last time we matched strength, you traded 
worlds. Would you like to visit Earth again, 
Lord Ganelon?" 

It was my turn to laugh. 

"You could not. And if you could, you 
wouldn't, after you hear me." 

Her blue eyes searched mine. 

"You want something desperately," she 
said in a slow voice. "Your very presence 
here, offering me terms, proves that. I never 
thought to see the Lord Ganelon face to face 
unless he was in chains or in a berserker 
battle-mood. Your need of me, Lord Gane- 
lon, serves as chains for you now. You are 
fettered by your need, and helpless." 
" She turned back to the fire and sat down 
with graceful smoothness, her huge body 
under perfect control. Across the flame in its 



3 STORIES 

crystal bowl she faced me. 

"Sit down, Ganelon." she said again, "and 
we will bargain, you and I. One thing first — 
do not waste my time with lies. I shall know 
if you tell the truth, Covenanter. Remember 
it" 

I shrugged. 

"Why should I bother with lies for such as 
.you?" I said. "I have nothing to hide from 
you. The more of truth you know, the 
stronger you'll see my case is. First, though — 
those slaves who came in before me?" 

She nodded toward the back of the cave. 

"I sent them into the inner mountain. They 
sleep. You know the heavy sleep that comes 
upon those loosed from the Spell, Lord Gane- 
lon." 

I sat down, shaking my head. 

"No — no, thai I can not quite remember. 
I — you asked for the truth, old woman. Lis- 
ten to it, then. I am Ganelon. but the false 
memories of Edward Bond still blur my mind. 
As Edward Bond I came here — but Aries 
told me one thing that brought Ganelon 
back. She told me that the Coven, in my 
hour of weakness, had dressed me in the blue 
cloak of the sacrifice and I was riding for 
Caer Secaire when the woodsmen attacked 
us. Must I tell you now what my first wish 
in life is, witch-woman?" 

"Revenge on the Coven." She said it hol- 
lowly, her eyes burning into mine through 
the fire. "This is the truth you speak, Coven- 
anter. You want my help in getting your 
vengeance. What can you offer the woods- 
folk in return, save fire and sword? Why 
should we trust you, Ganelon?" 

Her ageless eyes burned into mine. 

"Because of what you want. My desire is 
vengeance. Yours is— what?" 

"The end of Llyr — the ruin of the Coven!" 
Her voice was resonant and her whole age- 
less face lighted as she spoke. 

"So. I too desire the ruin of the Coven and 
the end— the end of Llyr." My tongue stum- 
bled a little when I said that. I was not sure 
why. True, I had been sealed to Llyr in a 
great and terrible ceremony once — I could 
recall that much. But Llyr and I were not 
one. We might have been, had events .run 
differently. I shuddered now at the thought 
of it 

Yes, it was Llyr's end I desired now — 
must desire, if I hoped to live. 

Freydis looked at me keenly. She nodded. 

"Yes — perhaps you do. Perhaps you do, 
What do you want of us then, Ganelon?" 



THE DARK WORLD 



32 



I SPOKE hastily: 
"I want you to swear to your people that 
I am Edward Bond. No—wait! I can do more 
for them now than Edward Bond could do. 
Give thanks that I am Ganelon again, old 
woman! For only he can help you. Listen to 
me. Your foresters could not kill me. I know 
that. Ganelon is deathless, except on Llyr's 
altar. But they could fetter me and keep me 
prisoner here until you could work your 
spells again and bring Edward Bond back. 
And that would be foolish for your sake and 
for mine. 

"Edward Bond has done all he knows for 
you. Now it's Ganelon's turn. Who else could 
tell you how Llyr is vulnerable, or where 
Matholch keeps his secret weapons, or how 
one can vanquish Edeym? These things I 
know — or I once knew. You must help me 
win my memories back, Freydis. After 
that — " I grinned fiercely. 

She nodded. Then she sat quiet for awhile. 

"What do you want me to do, then, Gane- 
lon?" she asWed, at last. 

"Tell me first about the bridging of the 
worlds," I said eagerly. "How did you change 
Edward Bond and me?" 

Freydia smiled grimly. 

"Not so fast, Covenanter!" she answered. 
"I have my secrets too! I will answer only a 
part of that question. We wrought the change, 
as you must guess, simply to rid ourselves of 
you. You must remember how fiercely you 
were pressing us in your raids for slaves, in 
your hatred of our freedom. We are a proud 
people, Ganelon, and we would not be op- 
pressed forever. But we knew there was no 
death for you except in a way we could not 
use. 

"I knew of the twin world of Earth. I 
searched, and found Edward Bond. And after 
much striving, much effort, I wrought a cer- 
tain transition that put you in the other 
world, with the memories of Edward Bond 
biotting out your own. 

"We were rid of you. True, we had Edward 
Bond with us, and we did not trust him 
either. He was too like you. But him we 
could kill if we must. We did not. He is a 
strong man, Covenanter. We came to trust 
him and rely upon him. He brought us new 
ideas of warfare. He was a good leader. It 
was he who planned the attack upon the next 
Coven sacrifice — " 

"An attack that failed," I said. "Or would 
have failed, had I not swung my weight into 
the balance. Edward Bond had Earth-knowl- 



edge, yes. But his weapons and defenses 
could only have breached the outer walls of 
the Coven. You know there are powers, sel- 
dom used, but powers that do not fail!" 

"I know," she said. "Yes, I know, Ganelon. 
Yet we had to try, at least. And the Coven 
had been weakened by losing you. Without 
you, none of the others would have dared call 
on Llyr, except perhaps Ghast Rhymi." She 
stared deeply into the fire. "I know you, 
Ganelon. I know the pride that burns in your 
soul. And I know, too, that vengeance, now, 
would be very dear to your heart. Yet you 
were sealed to Llyr, once, and you have been 
Covenanter since your birth. How do I know 
you can be trusted?" 

I did not answer that. And, after a moment, 
Freydis turned toward the smoke-blackened 
wall. She twitched aside a curtain I had not 
seen. There, in an alcove, was a Symbol, a 
very ancient Sign, older than civilization, 
older than human speech. 

Yes, Freydis would be one of the few who 
knew what that Symbol meant. As I knew. 

"Now will you swear that you speak with 
a straight tongue?" she said. 

I moved my hand in the ritual gesture that 
bound me irrevocably. This was an oath I 
could not break without being damned and 
doubly damned, in this world and the next. 
But I had no hesitation. I spoke truth! 

"I will destroy the Coven!" I said. 

"And Llyr?" 

"I will bring an end to Llyr!" 

But sweat stood out on my forehead as I 
said that. It was not easy. 

Freydis twitchecT the curtain back into 
place. She seemed satisfied. 

"I have less doubt now," she said. "Well, 
Ganelon, the Norns weave strange threads 
together to make warp and woof of destiny. 
Yet there is a pattern, though sometimes we 
cannot see it. I did not ask you to swear 
fealty to the forest-folk." 

"I realize that." 

"You would not have sworn it," she said. 
"Nor is it necessary. After the Coven is 
broken, after an end is made to Llyr, I can 
guard the people of the woods against even 
you, Ganelon. And we may meet in battle 
then. But until then we are allies. I will 
name you — Edward Bond." 

"IH need more than that," I told her. "If 
the masquerade is to pass unchallenged." 

"No one will doubt my word," Freydis said. 
Firelight nickered on her great frame, her 
smooth, ageless face. 



STARTLING STORIES 



"I cannot fight the Coven till I get back 
my memories. The memories of Ganelon. 
All of them." 

SHE shook her head. 
"Well," she said slowly, "I cannot do 
too much on that score. Something, yes. 
But writing on the mind is touchy work, and 
memories, once erased, are not easily brought 
back. You still have Edward Bond's mem- 
ories?" 
I nodded. 

"But my own, no. They're fragmentary. 
I know, for example, that I was sealed to 
Llyr, but the details I don't remember." 

"It would be as well, perhaps, to let that 
memory stay lost," Freydis said somberly. 
"But you are right. A dulled tool is no use. 
So listen." 

Rock-still, boulder-huge, she stood across 
the fire from me. Her voice deepened. 

"I sent you into the Earth-World. I 
brought your double, Edward Bond, here. 
He helped us, and — Aries loved him, after 
a while. Even Lorryn, who does not trust 
many, grew to trust Edward Bond." 

"Who is Lorryn?" 

"One of us now. Not always. Years ago 
he had his cottage in the forest; he hunted, 
and few were as cunning as Lorryn in the 
chase. His wife was very young. Well, she 
died. Lorryn came back to his cottage one 
night and found death there, and blood, and 
a wolf that snarled at him from a bloody 
muzzle. He fought the wolf; he did not kill 
it. You saw Lorryn's cheek. His whole body 
is like that, scarred and wealed from wolf- 
fangs." 

"A wolf?" I said. "Not—" 

"A wolfling," Freydis said. "Lycanthrope, 
shape-changer. Matholch. Some day Lorryn 
will kill Matholch. He lives only for that." 

"Let him have the red dog," I said con- 
temptuously. "If he likes. I'll give him Mat- 
holch flayed!" 

"Aries and Lorryn and Edward Bond have 
planned their campaign," Freydis said. "They 
swore that the last Sabbat had been cele- 
brated in the Dark World. Edward Bond 
showed them new weapons he remembered 
from Earth. Such weapons have been built 
and are in the arsenal, ready. No Sabbats 
have been held since Medea and her fol- 
lowers went searching to Earth; the woods- 
folk held their hands. There was nothing to 
strike at except old Ghast Rhymi. Now 
Medea and the rest of the Coven are back, 



they're ready. If you lead against them, 
Ganelon, the Coven can be smashed, I think." 

"The Coven has its own weapons," I mut- 
tered. "My memory fails — but I think Edeyrn 
has a power that — that — " I shook my head. 
"No, it's gone." 

"How can Llyr be destroyed?" Freydis 
asked. 

"I — I may have known once. Not now." 

"Look at me," she said. And leaned for- 
ward, so that it seemed as though her ageless 
face was bathed in the fires. 

Through the flames her gaze caught mine. 
Some ancient power kindled her clear blue 
eyes. Like pools of cool water under a bright 
sky — pools deep and unstirring, where one 
could sink into an azure silence forever and 

As I looked the blue waters clouded, grew 
dark. I saw a great black dome against s 
black sky, I saw the thing that dwells deep- 
est and most strongly in the mind of Ganelon 
— Caer Llyr! 

The dome swam closer. It loomed above 
me. Its walls parted like dark water, and 
I moved in memory down the great smooth, 
shining corridor that leads to Llyr Himself. 



CHAPTER IX 
Realm of the Superconscious 



ONWARD I moved. Faces flickered be- 
fore me — Matholch's fierce grin, 
Edeyrn's cowled head with • its glance that 
chilled, Medea's savage beauty that no man 
could ever forget, even in his hatred. They 
looked at me, mistrustfully. Their lips moved 
in soundless question. Curiously, I knew 
these were real faces I saw. 

In the magic of Freydis' spell I was drifting 
through some dimensionless place where only 
the mind ventures, and I was meeting here 
the thoughts of the questing Coven, meeting 
the eyes of their minds. They knew me. 
They asked me fiercely a question I could 
not hear. 

Death was in the face Matholch's mind 
turned to mine. All his hatred of me boiled 
furiously in his yellow wolf-eyes. His lips 
moved — almost I could hear him. Medea's 
features swam up before me, blotting out the 
shape-changer. Her red mouth framed a 
question — over and over. 

"Ganelon, where are you? Ganelon, mv 



TIIE DARK WORLD 



35 



lover, where are you? You must come back 
to us. Ganelon!" 

Edeyrn's faceless head moved between 
Medea and me, and very distantly I heard 
her cool, small voice echoing the same 
thought, 

"You must return to us, Ganelon. Return 
to us and die!" 

Anger drew a red curtain between those 
faces and myself. 

Traitors, betrayers, false to the Coven 
oath! How dared they threaten Ganelon, 
the strongest of them all? How dared they 
—and why? 

Why? 

My brain reeled with the query. And then 
I realized there was one face missing from 
the Coven. These three had been searching 
the thought- planes for me, but what of Ghast 
Rhymi? 

Deliberately I groped for the contact of his 
mind. 

I could not touch him. But I remembered. 
I remembered Ghast Rhymi, whose face Ed- 
ward Bond had never seen. Old, old, old, 
beyond good and evil, beyond fear and 
hatred, this was Ghast Rhymi, the wisest of 
the Coven. If he willed, he would answer 
my groping thought. If he willed not, noth- 
ing could force him. Nothing could harm 
the Eldest, for he lived on only by force of 
his own will. 

He could end himself instantly, by the 
power of a thought. And he is like a candle 
flame, flickering away as one grasps at him. 
Life holds nothing more for him. He does 
not cling to it. If I had tried to seize him 
he could slip like fire or water from my 
grasp. He would as soon be dead as alive. 
But unless he must, he would not break his 
deep calm to think the thought that would 
change him into clay. 

His mind and the image of his face re- 
mained hidden from my quest. He would not 
answer. The rest of the Coven still kept 
calling to me with a strange desperation in 
their minds — return and die, Lord Ganelon! 
But Ghast Rhymi did not care. 

So I knew that it was at his command the 
death-sentence had been passed. And I knew 
I must seek him out and somehow force an 
answer from him — from Ghast Rhymi, upon 
whom all force was strengthless. Yet force 
him I must! 

All this while my mind had been drifting 
effortlessly down the great hallway of Caer 
Uyr, borne upon that tide that flows deepest 



in the mind of Ganelon, the Chosen of LJyr — 
Ganelon, who must one day return to Him 
Who Waits. ... As I was returning now. 

A golden window glowed before me. I 
knew it for the window through which great 
Llyr looks out upon his world, the window 
through which he reaches for his sacrifices. 
And Llyr was hungry. I felt his hunger. 
Llyr was roaming the thought-planes too, 
and in the moment that I realized again 
where my mind was drifting, I felt suddenly 
the stir of a great reaching, a tentacular 
groping through the golden window. 

Llyr had sensed my presence in the planes 
of his mind. He knew his Chosen. He 
stretched out his godlike grasp, to fold me 
into that embrace from which ^here is no 
returning. 

I heard the soundless cry of Medea, vanish- 
ing like a puff of smoke out of the thought- 
plane as she blanked her mind defensively 
from the terror. I heard Matholch's voiceless 
howl of pure fear as he closed his own mind. 
There was no sound from Edeym, but she 
was gone as utterly as if she had never 
thought a thought. I knew the three of them 
sat somewhere in their castle, eyes and minds 
closed tightly, willing themselves to blank- 
ness as Uyr roamed the thought-lanes seek- 
ing the food he had been denied so long. 

A part of me shared the terror of the 
Coven. But a part of me remembered Llyr. 
For an instant, almost I recaptured the dark 
ecstasy of that moment when Llyr and I were 
one, and the memory of horror and of dread- 
ful joy came back, the memory of a power 
transcending all earthly things. 

This was mine for the taking, if I opened 
my mind to Llyr. Only one man in a genera- 
tion is sealed to Llyr, sharing in his godhead, 
exulting with him in the ecstasy of human 
sacrifice — and I was that one man if I chose 
to complete the ceremony that would make 
me Llyr's. If I chose, if I dared — ah! 

The memory of anger came back. I must 
not release myself into that promised joy. 
I had sworn to put an end to Llyr. I had 
sworn by the Sign to finish the Coven and 
Llyr. Slowly, reluctantly, my mind pulled 
itself back from the fringing contact of those 
tentacles. 

THE moment that tentative contact was 
broken, a full tide of horror washed over 
me. Almost I had touched — him. Almost 
I had let myself be defiled beyond all human 
understanding by the terrible touch of — of — 



M 



STARTLING STORIES 



There is no word in any language for the 
thing that was Llyr. But I understood what 
had been in my mind as Edward Bond when 
I realized that to dwell on the same soil as 
Llyr, share the same life, was a defilement 
that made earth and life too terrible to en- 
dure — if one knew Llyr. 

I must put an end to him. In that moment, 
I knew I must stand up and face the being 
we knew as Llyr and fight him to his end. 
No human creature had ever fully faced him 
— not even his sacrifices, not even his Chosen. 
But his slayer would have to face him, and 
1 had sworn to be his slayer. 

Shuddering, I drew back from the black 
depths of Caer Llyr, struggled to the surface 
of that still blue pool of thought which had 
been Freydis' eyes. The darkness ebbed 
around me and by degrees the walls of the 
cave came back, the fuelless flame, the great 
smooth-limbed sorceress who held my mind 
in the motionless deeps of her spell. 

As I returned to awarenes, slowly, slowly, 
knowledge darted through my mind in light- 
ning-flashes, too swiftly to shape into words. 

I knew, I remembered. 

Ganelon's life came back in pictures that 
went vividly by and were printed forever on 
my brain. I knew his powers; I knew his 
secret strengths, his hidden weaknesses. I 
knew his sins. I exulted in his power and 
pride. I returned to my own identity and 
was fully Ganelon again. Or almost fully. 

But there were still hidden things. Too 
much had been erased from my memory to 
come back in one full tide. There were gaps, 
and important gaps, in what I could recall. 

The blue darkness cleared. I looked into 
Freydis' clear gaze across the fire. I smiled, 
feeling a cold and arrogant confidence well- 
ing up in me. 

"You have done well, witch-woman," I 
told her. 

"You remember?" 

"Enough. Yes, enough." I laughed. "There 
are two trials before me, and the first is the 
easier of the two, and it is impossible. But 
I shall accomplish it." 

"Ghast Rhymi?" she asked in a quiet voice. 

"How do you know that?" 

"I know the Coven. And I think, but I am 
not sure, that in Ghast Rhymi's hands lie 
the secrets of the Coven and of Llyr. But 
no man can force Ghast Rhymi to do his- 
bidding." 

"I'll find the way. Yes, I will even tell you 
what my next task is. You shall have the 



truth as I just learned it, witch. Do you 
know of the Mask and the Wand?" 

Her eyes on mine, she shook her head. "Tell 
me. Perhaps I can help." 

1 laughed again. It was so fantastically 
implausible that she and I should stand here, 
sworn enemies of enemy clans, planning a 
single purpose together! Yet there was only 
a little I hid from her that day, and I think 
not very much that Freydis hid from me. 

"In the palace of Medea, is a crystal mask 
and the silver Wand of Power," I told her. 
"What that Wand is I do not quite remember 
— yet. But when I find it, my hands will 
know. And with it I can overcome Medea and 
Matholch and all their powers. As for Edeyrn 
— well, this much I know. The Mask will save 
me from her." 

I hesitated. 

Medea I knew now. I knew the strange 
hungers and the stranger thirsts that drove 
the beautiful red and white witch to her 
trystings. I knew now, and shuddered a little 
to think of it, why she took her captives with 
those arrows of fire that did not kill at all, 
but only stunned them. 

In the Dark World, my world, mutation 
has played strange changes upon flesh that 
began as human. Medea was one of the 
strangest of all. There is no word in Earth- 
tongues for it, because no creature such as 
Medea ever walked Earth. But there is an 
approximation. In reality perhaps, and cer- 
tainly in legend, beings a little like her have 
been known on Earth. The name they give 
them is Vampire. 

But Edeyrn, no. I could not remember. It 
may be that not even Ganelon had ever 
known. I only knew that in time of need, 
Edeyrn would uncover her face. 

"Freydis," I said, and hesitated again. 
"What is Edeyrn?" 

She shook her massive head, the white 
braids stirring on her shoulders. 

"I have never known. I have only probed 
at her mind now and then, when we met as 
you met her today, on the thought-lanes. I 
have much power, Ganelon, but I have al- 
ways drawn back from the chill I sensed 
beneath Edeyrn's hood. No, I cannot tell you 
what she is." 

I laughed again. Recklesness was upon 
me now. 

"Forget Edeyrn," I said. "When I have 
forced Ghast Rhymi to my bidding, and faced 
Llyr with the weapon that will end him, what 
shall I fear of Edeyrn? The Crystal Mask is 



THE DAE 

a talisman against her. That much I know. 
Let her be whatever monstrous thing she 
wills — Ganelon has no fear of her." 

"There is a weapon, then, against Llyr 
too?" 

"There is a sword," I said. "A sword that 
is — is not quite a sword as we think of 
weapons. My mind is cloudy there still. But 
I know that Ghast Rhymi can tell me where 
it is. A weapon, yet not a weapon. The 
Sword Called Llyr." 

FOR an instant, as I spoke that name, it 
seemed to me that the fire between us 
dickered as if a shadow had passed across 
its brightness. I should not have called the 
name aloud. An echo of it had gone ringing 
across the realms of thought, and in Caer 
Llyr perhaps Llyr Himself had stirred be- 
hind the golden window — stirred, and looked 
out. 

Even here, I felt a faint flicker of hunger 
from that far-away domed place. And sud- 
denly, I knew what I had done. Llyr was 
awake! 

I stared at Freydis with widened eyes, 
meeting her blue gaze that was widening 
too. She must have felt the stir as it ran 
formlessly all through the Dark World. In 
the Castle of the Coven I knew they had 
felt it too, perhaps that they looked at one 
another with the same instant dread which 
flashed between Freydis and me here. 

Llyr was awake! 

And I had wakened him. I had gone drift- 
ing in thought down that shining corridor 
and stood in thought before the very window 
itself, Llyr's Chosen, facing Llyr's living win- 
dow. No wonder he had stirred at last to full 
awakening. 

Exultation ■>■? •. i ■ 1 up in my mind. 

"Now they must move!" I told Freydis joy- 
fully. "You wrought better than you knew 
when you set my mind free to rove its old 
track. Llyr wakens and is hungrier than the 
Coven ever dared let him grow before. For 
overlong there has been no Sabbat, and Llyr 
ravens for his sacrifice. Have you spies 
watching the Castle now, witch-woman?" 

She nodded. 

"Good. Then we will know when the slaves 
are gathered again for a Sabbat meeting. 
It will be soon. It must be soon! And Ed- 
ward Bond will lead an assault upon the 
Castle while the Coven are at Sabbat in Caer 
Secaire. There will be the Mask and the 
Wand, old woman!" My voice deepened to a 



Z WORLD 37 

chant of triumph. "The Mask and the Wand 
for Ganelon, and Ghast Rhymi alone in the 
Castle to answer me if he can! The Norns 
fight on our side, Freydis!" 

She looked at me long and without speak- 
ing. 

Then a grim smile broke across her face 
and stooping, she spread her bare hand, palm 
down, upon the fuelless flame. I saw the fixe 
lick up around her fingers. Deliberately she 
crushed it out beneath her hand, not flinching 
at all. 

The fire flared and died away. The crystal 
dish stood empty upon its pedestal, and dim- 
ness closed around us. In that twilight the 
woman was a great figure of marble, tower- 
ing beside me. 

I heard her deep voice. 

"The Norns are wtih us, Ganelon," she 
echoed. "See that you fight upon our side 
too, as far as your oath will take you. Or you 
must answer to the gods and to me. And by 
the gods — " she laughed harshly, " — by the 
gods, if you betray me, I swear I'll smash 
you with no other power than this!" 

In the dimness I saw her lift her great 
arms. We looked one another in the eye, 
this mighty sorceress and I, and I was not 
sure but that she could overcome me in single 
combat if the need arose. By magic and by 
sheer muscle, I recognized an equal. I bent 
my head. 

"So be it, Sorceress," I said, and we clasped 
hands there in the darkness. And almost 
I hoped I need not have to betray her. 

Side by side, we went down the corridor 
to the cave mouth. 

The half-circle of foresters still awaited us. 
Aries and the scarred Lorryn stood a little 
forward, lifting their heads eagerly as we 
emerged. I paused, catching the quiver oi 
motion as calloused hands slipped stealthily 
toward hilt and bowstring. Panic, subdued 
and breathless, swept around the arc of 
woodsfolk. 

I stood there savoring the moment of ter- 
ror among them, knowing myself Ganelon 
and the nemesis that would bring harsh jus- 
tice upon them all, in my own time. In my 
own good time. 

But first I needed their help. 

At my shoulder the deep voice of Freydis 
boomed through the glade. 

"I have looked upon this man," she said. 
"I name him — Edward Bond." 

Distrust of me fell away from them; Frey- 
dis' words reassured them. 



38 



CHAPTER X 
Swords for the Coven 



NOW the sap that runs through Ygdra- 
sill-root stirred from its wintry slug- 
gishness, and the inhuman guardians of the 
fate-tree roused to serve me. The three Norns 
—the Destiny -weavers — I prayed to them! 
Urdur who rules the past! 
She whispered of the Covenanters, and 
their powers and their weaknesses; of Mat- 
holch, the wolfling, whose berserk rages were 
his great flaw, the gap in his armor through 
which I could strike, when fury had drowned 
his wary cunning; of the red witch and of 
Edeyrn — and of old Ghast Rhymi. My en- 
emies. Enemies whom I could destroy, with 
the aid of certain talismans that I had re- 
membered now. Whom I would destroy! 
Verdandi who rules the present! 
Edward Bond had done his best. In the 
caves the rebels had showed me were weap- 
ons, crude rifles and grenades, gas-bombs and 
even a few makeshift flame-throwers. They 
would be useful against the Coven's slaves. 
How useless they would be against the Cove- 
nanters I alone knew. Though Freydis may 
have known too. 

Yet Aries and Lorryn and their reckless 
followers were ready to use those Earth- 
weapons, very strange to them, in a desperate 
attack on the Castle. And I would give them 
that chance, as soon as our spies brought 
word of Sabbat-preparations. It would be 
soon. It would have to be soon. For Llyr 
was awake now — hungry, thirsting — beyond 
the Golden Window that is his door into the 
worlds of mankind. 
Skuld who rules the future! 
To Skuld I prayed most of all. I thought 
that the Coven would ride again to Caer 
Secaire before another dawn came. By then 
I wanted the rebels ready. 

Edward Bond had trained them well. There 
was military discipline, after a fashion. Each 
man knew his equipment thoroughly, and all 
were expert woodsmen. We laid our plans, 
Aries and Lorryn and I — though I did not tell 
them everything I intended — and group by 
group, the rebels slipped away into the forest, 
bound for the Castle. 

They would not attack. They would not 
reveal themselves until the signal was given. 
Meantime, they would wait, concealed in the 



; STORIES 

gulleys and scrub-woods around the Castle. 
But they would be ready. When the time 
came, they would ride down to the great 
gates. Their grenades would be helpful there. 

Nor did it seem fantastic that we should 
battle magic with grenades and rifle. For I 
was beginning to realize more and more, as 
my lost memory slowly returned, that the 
Dark World was not ruled by laws of pure 
sorcery. To an Earth-mind such creatures 
as Matholch and Medea would have seemed 
supernatural, but I had a double mind, for 
as Ganelon I could use the memories of Ed- 
ward Bond as a workman uses tools. 

I had forgotten nothing I had ever known 
about Earth. And by applying logic to the 
Dark World. I understood things I had al- 
ways before taken for granted. 

The mutations gave the key. There are 
depths in the human mind forever un- 
plumbed, potentialities for power as there 
are lost, atrophied senses — the ancient third 
eye that is the pineal gland. And the human 
organism is the most specialized thing of flesh 
that exists. 

Any beast of prey is better armed with fang 
and claw. Man has only his brain. But as 
carnivores grew longer, more deadly talons, 
so man's mind developed correspondingly. 
Even in Earth- world there are mediums, 
mind-readers, psychomantic experts, ESP 
specialists. In the Dark World the mutations 
had run wild, producing cosmic abortions 
for which there might be no real need for 
another million years. 

And such minds, with their new powers, 
would develop tools for those powers. The 
wands. Though no technician, I could under- 
stand their principle. Science tends toward 
simpler mechanisms; the klystron and the 
magnetron are little more than metal bars. 
Yet, under the right conditions, given energy 
and direction, they are powerful machines. 

Well, the wands tapped the tremendous 
electromagnetic energy of the planet, which 
is, after all, simply a gargantuan magnet. 
As for the directive impulse, trained minds 
could easily supply that. 

Whether or not Matholch actually changed 
to wolf-form I did not know, though I did 
not think he did. Hypnosis was part of the 
answer. An angry cat will fluff out its fur 
and seem double its size. A cobra will, in 
effect, hypnotize its prey. Why? In order 
to break down the enemy's defences, to dis- 
arm him, to weaken the single- purposiveness 
that is so vital in combat. No, perhaps Mat- 



THE DARK WORLD 



33 



holch did not turn into a wolf, but those 
under the spell of his hypnosis thought he 
did, which came to the same thing in the end. 

Medea? There was a parallel. There are 
diseases in which blood transfusions are peri- 
odically necessary. Not that Medea drank 
blood; she had other thirsts. But vital ner- 
vous energy is as real a thing as a leucocyte, 
and, witch though she was, she did not need 
magic to serve her needs. >■ 

OF EDEYRN I was not so sure. Some 
stray remembrances hung like mists in 
my mind. Once I had known what she was, 
what chilling power lay hidden in the dark- 
ness of her cowl. And that was not magic 
either. The Crystal Mask would protect me 
against Edeyrn, but I knew no more than 
that. 

Even Llyr — even Llyr! He was no god. 
That I knew well. Yet what he might be 
was something I could not even guess at as 
yet. Eventually I meant to find out, and the 
Sword Called Llyr. which was not a true 
sword, would aid me then. 

Meanwhile, I had my part to play. Even 
with Freydis as my sponsor, I could not afford 
to rouse suspicion among the rebels. I had 
explained that Medea's drug had left me weak 
and shaken. That helped to explain any minor 
lapses I might make. Curiously, Lorryn 
seemed to have accepted me fully at Freydis' 
word, while in Aries' behavior I detected a 
faint, almost imperceptible reserve. I do not 
think that she suspected the truth. Or, if 
she did, she was trying not to admit it, even 
in her own mind. 

And I could not afford to let that suspicion 
grow. 

The valley was very active now. 

Much had happened since I came there in 
the dawn. I had been through enough exer- 
tion both physical and emotional to last an 
ordinary man for a week, but Ganelon had 
only begun his battle. It was thanks to Ed- 
ward Bond that our plans for attack could 
be formulated so readily, and in a way I was 
glad I had been too busy for anything but 
the most impersonal planning with Aries and 
Lorryn. 

It helped to cover the great gaps of my 
ignorance about things Edward Bond should 
know. Many times I angled craftily for in- 
formation, many times I had to call upon the 
excuse of the mythical drug and upon the 
exhaustion of my ordeal at the Castle. But 
by the time our plans were laid, it seemed 



to me that even Aries' suspicions were partly 
lulled. 

I knew I must lull them utterly. 

We rose from the great map-table in the 
council-cavern. All of us were tired. I met 
Lorryn's scar-twisted grin, warmth in it now 
as he smiled at the man he thought his sworn 
friend, and I made Edward Bond's face smile 
back at him. 

"Well do it this time," I told him con- 
fidently. "This time we'll win!" 

His smile twisted suddenly into a grimace, 
and the light like embers glowed in his deep 
eyes. 

"Remember," he growled. "Matholch — for 
me!" 

I looked down at the relief-map of the 
table, very skillfully made under Edward 
Bond's directions. 

The dark green hills rolling with their 
strange forests of semi -animate trees, every 
brook traced in white plaster, every roadway 
marked. I laid my hand on the little mound 
of towers that was a miniature Castle of the 
Coven. From it stretched the highway I had 
ridden last night, beside Medea, in my blue 
sacrificial robe. There was the valley and the 
windowless tower of Caer Secaire which had 
been our destination. 

For a moment I rode that highway again, 
in the darkness and the starshine, seeing 
Medea beside me in her scarlet cloak, her 
face a pale oval in the dusk, her mouth black- 
red, her eyes shining at me. I remembered 
the feel of that fiercely yielding body in my 
arms as I had held her last night, as I had 
held hei' so many times before. In my mind 
whirled a question. 

Medea, Medea, red witch of Colchis, why 
did you betray me? 

I ground my palm down on the tiny plaster 
towers of the Castle, feeling them powder 
away beneath my hand. I gi-inned fiercely 
at the ruin I had made of Edward Bond's 
model. 

"We'll have no need for this again!" I said 
through my teeth. 
Lorryn laughed. 

"No need to repair it. Tomorrow the Coven 
Castle will be wreckage too," 

I dusted the powdered plaster from my 
hand and looked across the table at the 
silent Aries. She looked at me gravely, wait- 
ing. I smiled. 

"We haven't had a moment alone together," 
I said, making my voice tender. "I'll need 
sleep before I leave tonight, but there's time 



46 STARTLW 

for a walk, if youH come with me." 

The grave green gaze dwelt upon mine. 
Then she nodded, without smiling, and came 
around the table, stretching out her hand to 
me. I took it and we went down the steps 
to the cave-mouth and out into the glen, 
neither of us speaking. I let her lead the way, 
and we walked in silence toward the upper 
end of the valley, the little stream tinkling 
away beside us. 

Aries walked very lightly, her gossamer 
hair floating behind her in a pale misty veil. 
I wondered if it was by intent that she kept 
her free hand resting upon the holstered 
weapon at her side. 

IT WAS hard for me to keep my mind 
upon her, or to care whether or not she 
knew me for myself. Medea's face in all its 
beauty and its evil floated before me up the 
glen, a face no man who looked upon it could 
ever forget. For a moment I was angry at 
the recollection that Edward Bond, in my 
flesh, had taken last night the kisses she 
meant for Ganelon. 

Well, I would see her again tonight, before 
she died by my hand! 

In my mind I saw the tiny roadway of the 
map-table, winding down from Coven Castle 
to the sacrificial temple. Along the real road, 
sometime in the night to come, I knew the 
cavalcade would ride again as it had ridden 
with me last night. And again there would 
be forest men hiding along the road, and 
again I would lead them against the Coven. 
But this time the outcome would be very dif- 
ferent from anything either the rebels or the 
Coven could expect. 

What a strange web the Norns had woven! 
Last night as Edward Bond, tonight as Gane- 
lon, I would lead the same men in the same 
combat against the same foe, but with a pur- 
pose as different as night from day. 

The two of us 7 deadly enemies though we 
shared the same body in a strange, inverted 
way — enemies though we had never met and 
never could meet, for all our common flesh. 
It was an enigma too curious to unravel. 

"Edward," a voice said at my shoulder. I 
looked down. Aries was facing me with the 
same enigmatic gaze I had met so often to- 
day. "Edward, is she very beautiful?" 
I stared at her. 
"Who?" 

"The witch. The Coven witch. Medea." 
I almost laughed aloud. Was this the an- 
swer to all her aloofness of the day? Did 



i STORIES 

she think my own withdrawal, all the changes 
she sensed in me, were due to the charms of 
a rival beauty? Well, I must set her mind 
at rest about that, at any rate. I called upon 
Llyr to forgive me the lie, and I took her 
shoulders in my hands and said: 

"There is no woman on this world or on 
Earth half so beautiful as you, my darling." 

Still she looked up at me gravely. 

"When you mean that, Edward, I'll be 
glad," she said. "You don't mean it now. I 
can tell. No." She put her fingers across my 
mouth as I began to protest. "Let's not talk 
about her now. She's a sorceress. She has 
powers neither of us can fight. It isn't your 
fault or mine that she's too beautiful to for- 
get all in a moment. Never mind now. Look! 
Do you remember this place?" 

She twisted deftly from my grasp and 
swept out a hand toward the panorama spread 
below us. We stood in a grove of tall, quiver- 
ing trees high on the crest of the low moun- 
tain. The leaves and branches made a bower 
around us with their showers of shaking ten- 
drils, but through an opening here and there 
we could see the rolling country far below 
us, glowing in the light of the red westering 
sun. 

"This will be ours some day," said Aries 
softly. "After the Coven is gone, after Llyr 
has vanished. We'll be free to live above 
ground, clear the forests, build our cities — 
live like men again. Think of it, Edward! A 
whole world freed from savagery. And all 
because there were a few of us at the start 
who did not fear the Coven, and who found 
you. If we win the fight, Edward, it will be 
because of you and Freydis. We would all 
have been lost without you." 

She turned suddenly, her pale gold hair 
flying out around her face like a halo of float- 
ing gauze, and she smiled at me with a sud- 
den, bewitching charm I had never seen upon 
her face before. 

Until now she had always turned a grave 
reserve to my advances. Now suddenly I 
saw her as Edward Bond had, and it came 
to me in a flash of surprise that Bond was 
a very fortunate man, after all. Medea's 
sultry scarlet beauty would never wholly 
vanish from my mind, I knew, but this Axles 
had her own delicate and delightful charm. 

She was very near me, her lips parted as 
she smiled up into my face. For an instant 
I envied Edward Bond. Then I remembered. 
I was Edward Bond! But it was Ganelon 
who stooped suddenly and seized the forest 



THE DARK WORLD 



41 



girl in a fiercely ardent embrace that amazed 
her, for I felt her gasp of surprise against 
my breast and her stir of protest in the mo- 
ment before my lips touched hers. 

Then she protested no longer. 

She was a strange, wild, shy little creature, 
very pleasant in my arms, very sweet to kiss. 
I knew by the way she responded to me that 
Edward Bond had never held her like this. 
But then Edward Bond was a weakling and 
a fool. And before the kiss had ended I knew 
where I would turn first for solace when 
Medea had paid for her treachery with her 
life. I would not forget Medea, but I would 
not soon forget this kiss of Aries', either. 

She clung to me in silence for a moment, 
her gossamer hair floating like thistledown 
about us both, and above her head I looked 
out over the valley which she had seen in 
her mind's eyes peopled with free forest folk, 
dotted with their cities. I knew that dream 
would never come true. 

But I had a dream of my own! 

1SAW the forest people toiling to raise 
my mighty castle here perhaps on this 
very mountaintop, a castle to dominate the 
whole countryside and the lands beyond it. 
I saw them laboring under my overseers to 
conquer still further lands. I saw my armies 
marching, my slaves in my fields and mines, 
my navies on the dark oceans of a world that 
might well be mine. 

Aries should share it with me — for awhile. 
For a little while. 

"I will always love you!" I said at her ear 
in the voice of Edward Bond. But it was 
Ganelon's lips that found her lips in the one 
last ardent kiss I had time for then. 

Curiously, it seemed to me, that it took 
Ganelon's kisses at last to convince her I was 



Edward Bond 

After that, for a few hours I slept, snug in 
Edward Bond's cavern rooms, in his comfort- 
able bed, his guards watching beside the 
door. I slept with the memory of his sweet 
forest girl in my arms, and the prospect of 
his kingdom and his bride before me when 
I woke. I think in the Earth-world, Edward 
Bond must have dreamed jealous dreams. 

But my own dreams were bad. Llyr in his 
castle was awake and hungry, and the great, 
cold, writhing tendrils of his hunger coiled 
lazily through my mind as I slept. I knew 
they stirred through every mind in the Dark 
World that had senses to perceive them. I 
knew I must wake soon, or never. But first 
I must sleep and grow strong for the night's 
ordeal. Resolutely I shut Llyr from my 
thoughts, resolutely I shut away Aries. 

It was Medea's red smile and sidelong 
sultry glance that went down with me into 
the caverns of slumber. 



CHAPTER XI 
In Ghast Rhymi's Tower 

m m UIETLY Lorryn and I crouched among 
^£ the trees and looked out at the Castle 
of the Coven, aglitter with lights against the 
starry sky. This was the night! We both 
knew it, and we were both tense and sweat- 
ing with a nervous exultation that made this 
waiting hard indeed. 

All around us in the woods, unseen, we 
heard the tiny sounds that meant an army of 
forest people waited our signal. And this time 
they were here in force. I caught a glint of 
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42 STARTLING 

starlight now and then on rifle-barrels, and 
I knew that the rebels were armed to put 
up a good fight against the soldiers of the 
Coven. 

Not, perhaps, too good a fight. 

I did not care. They thought they were 
going to storm the Castle and the Coven 
by sheer force of arms. I knew their only 
purpose was to divert attention while I made 
my way into the Castle and found the secret 
weapons that would give me power over the 
Covenanters. While they were striking, I 
would make my way to Ghast Rhymi and 
learn what was essential for me to learn. 

Afte:- that, I did not care. Many foresters 
would die. Let them. There would still be 
slaves aplenty for me when my hour came. 
And nothing could stop me now. The Noras 
fought with me; I could not fail. . . . 

There was much activity within the Castle. 
Voices floated out to us in the still night air. 
Figures moved to and fro against the fights. 
Then great gates were flung open upon a 
burst of golden radiance and the outlines of 
many riders crowded against it. A procession 
was coming out. 

I heard chains clash musically, and I un- 
derstood. This time the sacrifices rode chained 
to their mounts, so that no siren voices from 
the wood could lure them away. I shrugged. 
Let them go to their death, then. Llyr must 
be fed while he lasted. Better these than 
Ganelon, offered at the Golden Window. We 
saw them go off down the dark road, their 
chains ringing. 

That was Matholch — there on the tall horse. 
I knew his vulpine outlines, the lift of the 
cloak upon his shoulders. And I would have 
known him too because of the great start, 
quickly checked, that Lorryn made beside 
me. I heard the breath whistle through his 
nostrils, and his voice grated in my ear. 

"Remember! That is mine!" 

Edeyrn went by, tiny on her small mount, 
and a breath of chill seemed to me to sweep 
the darkness as she passed. 

Medea came! 

When I could no longer make out her out- 
lines in the distance, when her white robe 
was no more than a shimmer and her scarlet 
cloak had melted into the dark, I turned to 
Lorryn, my mind spinning, my plans already 
chaotic with change. For a new compulsion 
had come upon me, and I was not even try- 
ing to resist it. 

I had not seen a sacrifice in Caer Secaire. 
This was one of the blank places in my mem- 



STORIES 

ory, and a dangerous blank. Until Ganelon 
remembered the Sabbat, until he watched 
Llyr accept the offerings through the Golden 
Window, he could not wholly trust himself 
to fight the Coven and Llyr. This was a gap 
that must be filled. And curiosity was sud- 
denly very strong upon me. Curiosity — and 
could it be — the pull of Llyr? 

"Lorryn, wait for me here," I whispered in 
the darkness. "We've got to make sure they 
enter Caer Secaire, start the Sabbat. I don't 
want to attack until I'm sure. Wait for me," 
He stirred protestingly, but I was away be- 
fore he could speak. I was out upon the road 
and running softly and silently after that pro- 
cessional winding toward the valley and the 
Mass of St. Secaire, which is the Black Mass. 
It seemed to me as I ran that the fragrance 
of Medea's perfume hung upon the air I 
breathed, and my throat choked with the 
passion of my hatred for her, and of my love. 

"She shall be the first to die," I promised 
myself in the dark. . , . 

I watched the great iron doors of Caer 
Secaire swing shut upon the last of the pro- 
cession. The Caer was dark inside. They . 
went quietly in, one by one, and vanished 
into the deeper night within. The doors 
clanged resonantly after them. 

Some memory of Ganelon's, buried beneath 
the surface of conscious thought, urged me 
to the left, around the curve of the great 
wall. I followed the impulse obediently, 
moving almost like a sleep-walker toward 
a goal I did not know. Memory took me close 
under the looming rampart, made me lay my 
hands on its surface. There were heavy 
scrollings of pattern there, writhing like ten- 
drils over the dark walls. My remembering 
fingers traced the curves, though my mind 
still wondered. 

THEN the wall moved beneath my hands. 
The scroll-work had been a key of sorts, 
and a door sank open in the blackness before 
me. I went confidently forward, out of black 
night, through a black door into deeper 
blackness within. But my feet knew the way. 

A stairway rose beneath me in the dark. 
My feet had expected it and I did not stum- 
ble. It was very curious to move so blindly 
through this strange and dangerous place, 
not knowing where or why I moved, yet 
trusting my body to find the way. The stairs 
wound up and up. 

Llyr was here. I could feel his hungry 
presence like a pressure on the mind, but 



THE DARK WORLD 



43 



many times intensified because of the narrow 
spaces within these walls, as if he were a 
sound of thunder reverberating again and 
again from the enclosed spaces of the Caer. 
Something within me reverberated sound- 
lessly in answer, a roar of exultation that I 
suppressed in quick revolt. 

Llyr and I were no longer linked by that 
ceremony of long ago. I repudiated it. I was 
not Llyr's Chosen now. But within me a 
sense I could not control quivered with ec- 
stasy at the thought of those sacrifices who 
had filed blindly through the great doors of 
Caer Secaire. And I wondered if the Coven 
— if Medea — thought of me now, who had so 
nearly stood with the sacrifices last night. 

My feet paused upon the stairs. I could see 
nothing, but I knew that before me was a 
wall carved with scroll-patterns. My hands 
found it, traced the raised designs. A sec- 
tion of darkness slid sidewise and I was lean- 
ing upon a wide ledge, looking down, very 
far down. 

Caer Secaire was like a mighty grove of 
columns whose capitals soared up and up 
into infinite darkness. Somewhere above, 
too high for me to see its source, a light was 
beginning to glow. My heart paused when 
I saw it, for I knew that light — that golden 
radiance from a Golden Window. 

Memory came fitfully back to me. The 
Window of Llyr. The Window of the Sacri- 
fice. I could not see it, but my mind's eye 
remembered its glow. In Caer Llyr that Win- 
dow's substance shone eternally, and Llyr 
Himself lolled behind it — far behind it — for- 
ever. But in Caer Secaire and in the other 
temples of sacrifice that had once dotted the 
Dark World, there were replicas of the Win- 
dow which glowed only when Llyr came 
bodilessly through the dark to take his due. 

Above us, hovering and hungry, Llyr was 
dawning now in that golden radiance, like a 
sun in the night time of the temple. Where 
the Window of Secaire was located, how it 
was shaped, I still could not remember. But 
something in me knew that golden light and 
shivered in response as I watched its bril- 
liance strengthen through the columns of the 
temple. 

Far below me I saw the Coven standing, 
tiny figures foreshortened to wedges of col- 
ored cloak — green-robed Matholch, yellow- 
robed Edeyrn, red Medea. Behind them stood 
a circle of guardsmen. Before them, as I 
watched, the last of the chosen slaves moved 
blindly away among the columns. I could 



not see where they were going, but in essence 
I knew. The Window was yawning for its 
sacrifices, and somehow they must make their 
way to it. 

As the light broadened, I saw that before 
the Coven stood a great cup-shaped altar, 
black on a black dais. Above it a lipped spout 
hung. My eyes traced the course of the 
trough which ended in the spout, and I saw 
now that there was a winding, descending 
curve, dark against that growing light, which 
came down in a great sweep from the mys- 
terious heights overhead, stretching from — 
the Window? — to the cupped altar. A stir 
deep within me told me what that trough 
was for. I leaned upon the sill, shaking with 
an anticipation that was half for myself and 
half for Him who hovered above us in the 
sun-like dawning of golden light. 

Thinly from below me rose a chant. I knew 
Medea's voice, clear and silver, a thread of 
sound in the dimness and the silence. It rose 
like incense, quivering among the mighty, 
topless columns of Secaire. 

A tenseness of waiting grew and grew in 
.the dim air of the temple. The figures below 
me stood motionless, heads lifted, watching 
the dawning light. Medea's voice chanted on 
and on. 

Time paused there in the columned grove 
of Secaire. while Llyr hovered above us wait- 
ing for his prey. 

Then a thin and terrible cry rang out from 
the heights overhead. One scream. The light 
shot out blmdingly in a great burst of exulta- 
tion, like a voiceless answering cry from Llyr 
Himself. Medea's chant rose to a piercing 
cUmax and paused. 

There was a stir among the columns; some- 
thing moved along that curve of trough. My 
eyes sought the altar and the lipped spout 
above it. 

The Coven was rigid, a cluster of frozen 
figures, waiting. 

Blood began to drip from the spout. 

I do not know how long I hung there on 
the ledge, my eyes riveted to the altar. I do 
not know how many times I heard a cry ring 
out from above, how many times Medea's 
chant rose to a hungry climax as the light 
burst forth in a glory overhead and blood 
gushed into the great cup of the altar. I was 
deaf and blind to everything but this. I was 
half with Llyr at his Golden Window, shaken 
with ecstasy as he took his sacrifices, and 
half with the Coven below, glorying in their 
share of the ceremony of the Sabbat. 



STARTLING STOBIES 



BUT I know I waited too long. 
What saved me I do not know now. 
Some voice of the ego crying unheard in my 
mind that this was time dangerously spent, 
that I must be elsewhere before the Sabbat 
ended, that Lorryn and his men waited end- 
lessly while I hung here battening like a glut- 
ton upon Llyr's feast. 

Reluctantly awareness returned to my 
mind. With an infinite effort I pulled myself 
back from the brink of that Golden Window 
and stood reeling in the darkness, but in my 
own body again, not hovering mindlessly 
with Llyr in the heights above. The Coven 
was still tense below me, gripped in the 
ecstasy of the sacrifice. But for how long I 
could not be sure. Perhaps for the rest of the 
night; perhaps for only an hour. I must 
hurry, if hurrying were not already futile. 
There was no way to know. 

So I went back in the darkness, down the 
unseen stairs, and out of the dark, unseen 
door, and back along the road to Coven 
Castle, my mind still reeling with remem- 
bered ecstasy, the glow of the Window still 
'before my dazzled eyes, and the scarlet run- 
nel above the altar, and the thin, sweet 
chanting of Medea louder in my ears than 
the sound of my own feet upon the road. 

The red moon was far down the sky when 
I came back to Lorryn, still crouching beside 
the castle wall and half mad with impatience. 
There was an eager stir among the unseen 
soldiers as I came running down the road, a 
forward surge as if they had waited to the 
very limit of endurance and would attack 
now whether I gave the word or no. 

I waved to Lorryn while I was still twenty 
feet away. I was careless now of the Castle 
guardsmen. Let them see me. Let them hear. 

"Give the signal!" I shouted to Lorryn. 
"Attack!" 

I saw him start up beside the road, and 
the moonlight glinted upon the silver horn 
he lifted to his lips. Its blare of signal notes 
ripped the night to tatters. It ripped away 
the last of my lethargy too. 

I heard the long yell that swept the forest 
as the woodsmen surged forward to the at- 
tack, and my own voice roared unbidden in 
reply, an ecstasy of battle-hunger that 
matched the ecstasy I had just shared with 
Llyr. 

The rattle of rifle-fire drowned out our 
voices. The first explosions of grenades shook 
the Castle, outlining the outer walls in livid 
detail. There were shouts from within, wild 



trumpetings of signal horns, the cries of con- 
fused guardsmen, leaderless and afraid. But 
I knew they would rally. They had been 
trained well enough by Matholch and by 
myself. And they had weapons that could 
give the woodsmen a stiff fight. 

When they recovered from this panic there 
would be much blood spilled around the 
outer walls. 

I did not wait to see it. The first explosions 
had breached the barriers close beside me, 
and I scrambled recklessly through the gap, 
careless of the rifle fire that spattered against 
the stones. The Norns were with me tonight. 
I bore a charmed life, and I knew I could not 
fail. 

Somewhere above me in the besieged tow- 
ers Ghast Rhymi sat wrapped in his chill 
indifference, aloof as a god above the strug- 
gle around Coven Castle. I had a rendezvous 
with Ghast Rhymi, though he did not know 
it yet. 

I plunged into the gateway of the Castle, 
heedless of the milling guards. They did not 
know me in the darkness and the confusion, 
but they knew by my tunic I was not a 
forester, and they let me shoulder them aside. 

Three steps at a time, I ran up the great 
stairway. 



CHAPTER XII 
Harp of Satan 



CASTLE of the Coven! How strange it 
looked to me as I went striding through 
its halls. Familiar, yet curiously unknown, 
as though I saw it through the veil of Ed- 
ward Bond's transplanted memories. 

So long as I went rapidly, I seemed to know 
the way. But if I hesitated, my conscious 
mind took over control, and that mind was 
still clouded with artificial memories, so that 
I became confused in the halls and corridors 
which were familiar to me when I did not 
think directly of them. 

It was as if whatever I focused on sharply 
receded into unfamiliarity while everything 
else remained clear, until I thought of it. 

I strode down hallways arched overhead 
and paved underfoot in bright, intricate 
mosaics that told legendary tales half- 
familiar to me. I walked upon centaurs and 
satyrs whose very faces were well known to 
the Gauelon half of my mind, while the Ed- 



THE DARK WORLD 



45 



ward Bond half wondered in vain whether 
such people had really lived in this distorted 
world of mutations. 

This double mind at times was a source of 
strength to me, and at others a source of de- 
vouring weakness. Just now I hoped fervent- 
ly that I might meet no delays, for once I 
lost this rushing thread of memory which 
was leading me toward Ghast Rhymi, I might 
never find it again. Any interruption might 
be fatal to my plans. 

Ghast Rhymi, my memories told me, would 
be somewhere in the highest tower of ihe 
castle. There too would be the treasure-room 
where the Mask and the Wand lay hidden, 
and hidden deeper in the serene, untouch- 
able thoughts of Ghast Rhymi, lay the secret 
of Llyr's vulnerability. 

These three things I must have, and the 
getting would not be easy. For I knew — with- 
out clearly remembering how or by what — 
that the treasure-room was guarded by 
Ghast Rhymi. The Coven would not have 
left open, to all comers that secret place 
where the things that could end them lay 
hidden. 

Even I, even Ganelon, had a secret thing 
locked in that treasury. For no Covenanter, 
no warlock, no sorceress can deal in the dark 
powers without creating, himself, the one in- 
strument that can destroy him. That is the 
Law. 

There are secrets behind it which I may 
not speak of, but the common one is clear. 
All Earth's folklore is rife with the same 
legend. Powerful men and women must focus 
their power in an object detached from 
themselves. 

The myth of the external soul is common 
to all Earth races, but the reason for it lies 
deep in the lore of the Dark World. This 
much I can say — that there must be a bal- 
ance in all things. For every negative, a 
positive. We of the Coven could not build 
up our power without creating a correspond- 
ing weakness somewhere, somehow, and we 
must hide that weakness so cunningly that 
no enemy could find it. 

Not even the Coven knew wherein my own 
secret lay. I knew Medea's, and I knew 
Edeyrn's only partially, and as for Matholch 
— well, against him I needed only my own 
Covenanter strength. Ghast Rhymi did not 
matter. He would not bother to fight. 

But Llyr? Ah! 

Somewhere the Sword lay hidden, and he 
who could find it and use it in that unknown 



way for which it was fashioned, he held the 
existence of Llyr in his own hand. But there 
was danger. For as Llyr's power in the Dark 
World was beyond imagination, so too must 
be that balancing power hidden in the Sword. 
Even to go near it might be fatally danger- 
ous. To hold it in the hand — well, hold it I 
must, and there was no profit in thinking 
about danger. 

I went up and up, on and on. 

I could not hear the sounds of battle. But 
I knew that at the gate the Coven guards 
and slaves were fighting and falling, as 
Lorryn's men, too, were falling. I had warned 
Lorryn that none must break through his 
lines to warn those at Caer Secaire. I knew 
that he would follow that order, despite his 
anxiety to come to grips with Matholch. For 
the rest, there was one in the Castle who 
could, without stirring, send a message to 
Medea. One person! 

He had not sent that message. I knew that 
as I thrust through the white curtain and 
came out into the tower room. The little 
chamber was semicircular, walls, floor and 
ceiling were ivory pale. The casement win- 
dows were shut, but Ghast Rhymi had never 
needed sight to send out his vision. 

He sat there, an old, old man, relaxed amid 
the cushions of his seat, snowy hair and 
beard falling in curled ringlets that blended 
with his white, plain robe. His hands lay up- 
on the chair- arms, pale as wax, so trans- 
parent that I could almost trace the course 
of the thinned blood that stirred so feebly in 
those old veins. 

Wick and wax had burned down. The flame 
of life flickered softly, and a wind might send 
that flame into eternal darkness. So sat the 
Ancient of Days, his blind blue gaze not 
seeing me, but turned upon inward things. 

C~1 ANELON'S memories flooded back. 
(S Ganelon had learned much from Ghast 
Rhymi. Even then, the Covenanter had 
been old. Now the tides of time had 
worn him, as the tides of the sea wear a stone 
till nothing is left but a thin shell, translucent 
as clouded glass. 

Within Ghast Rhymi I could see the life- 
fires dwindling, sunk to embers, almost ash. 

He did not see me. Not easily can Ghast 
Rhymi be drawn back from the deeps where 
his thoughts move. 

I spoke to him. but he did not answer. 
I went past him then, warily, toward the 
wall that divided the tower-top into two 



halves. There was no sign of a door, but I 
knew the combination. I moved my palms in 
an intricate pattern on the cool surface, and 
a gap widened before me. 

I crossed the threshold. 

Here were kept the holy things of the 
Coven. 

I looked upon that treasure-vault with new 
eyes, clearer because of Edward Bond's 
memories. That lens, burning with dull amber 
lights there in its hollowed place in the wall 
— I had never wondered much about it be- 
fore. It killed. But memories of Earth -science 
told me why. It was not magic, but an in- 
stantaneous drainage of the electrical energy 
of the brain. And that conical black device 
— that killed, too. It could shake a man to 
pieces, by shuttling his life-force back and 
forth so rapidly between artificial cathode 
and anode that living flesh could not stand 
the strain. Alternating current, with varia- 
tions! 

But these weapons did not interest me 
now. I sought other loot. There was no death- 
traps to beware of, for none but the Coven 
knew the way to enter this treasure- room, or 
its location, or even that it existed, save in 
legends. And no slave or guard would have 
dared to enter Ghast Rhymi's tower. 

My gaze passed over a sword, but not the 
one I needed; a burnished shield; a harp, set 
with an intricate array of manual controls. 
I knew that harp. Earth has legends of it — 
the harp of Orpheus, that could bring back 
the dead from Hades. Human hands could not 
play it. But I was not quite ready for the 
harp, yet. 

What I wanted lay on a shelf, sealed in its 
cylindrical case. I broke open the seals and 
took out the thin black rod with its hand- 
grip. 

The Wand of Power. The Wand that could 
tap the electro-magnetic force of a planet. 
So could other wands of this type — but this 
was the only one without the safety-device 
that limited its power. It was dangerous to 
use. 

In another case I found the Crystal Mask 
— a curved, transparent plate that shielded 
my eyes like a domino mask of glass. This 
mask would shield one from Edeyrn. 

I searched further. But of the Sword of 
Llyr I could find no trace. 

Time did not lag. I heard nothing of the 
noise ©f battle, but I knew that the battle 
went on, and I knew, too, that sooner or 
later the Coven would return to the Castle. 



STORIES 

Well, I could fight the Coven now, but I 
could not fight Llyr. I dared not risk the is- 
sue till I had made sure. 

In the door of the vault I stood, staring at 
Ghast Rhymi's silvery head. Whatever 
guardian thought he kept here, knew I had 
a right to the treasure room. He made no 
motion. His thoughts moved far out in un- 
imaginable abysses, nor could they be easily 
drawn back. And it was impossible to put 
pressure on Ghast Rhymi. He had the per- 
fect answer. He could die. 

Well, I too had an answer! 

I went back into the vault and lifted the 
harp. I carried it out and set it down before 
the old man. No life showed in his blue stare. 

I went to the windows and flung them 
open. Then I returned, dropping to the cush- 
ions beside the harp, and lightly touched its 
intricate controls. 

That harp had been in the Earth-world, or 
others like it. Legends know its singing 
strings, as , legends tell of mystic swords. 
There was the lyre of Orpheus, strong with 
power, that Jupiter placed amid the stars- 
There was the harp of Gwydion of Britain, 
that charmed the souls of men. And the 
harp of Alfred, that helped to crush Dane- 
land. There was David's harp that he played 
before Saul. 

Power rests in music. No man today can 
say what sound broke the walls of Jericho, 
but once men knew. 

Here in the Dark World this harp had its 
legends among the common folk. Men said 
that a demon played it that the airy fingers 
of elemental spirits plucked at its strings. 
Well, in a way they were right. 

FOR an incredible perfection of science 
had created this harp. It was a machine. 
Sonic, sub-sonic, and pure vibration to 
match the thought-waves emitted by the 
brain blended into a whole that was part 
hypnosis and part electric magnetism. The 
brain is a colloid, a machine, and any ma- 
chine can be controlled. 

And the harp of power could find the key 
to a mind, and lay bonds upon that mind. 

Through the open windows, faintly from 
below, I heard the clash of swords and the 
dim shouts of fighting men. But these sounds 
did not touch Ghast Rhymi. He was lost on 
the plane of pure abstraction, thinking his 
ancient, deep thoughts. 

My fingers touched the controls of the 
harp, awkwardly at first, then with more 



THE DAF 

ease as manual dexterity came back with 
memory. 

The sigh of a plucked string whispered 
through the white room. The murmuring of 
minor notes, in a low, dreamily distant key. 
And as the machine found the pattern of 
Ghast Rhymi's mind, under my hands the 
harp quickened into breathing life. 

The soul of Ghast Rhymi — translated into 
terms of pure music! 

Shrill and ear-piercing a single note sang. 
Higher and higher it mounted, fading into 
inaudibility. Deep down a roaring, windy 
noise began, rising and swelling into the 
demon-haunted shout of a gale. Rivers of air 
poured their music into the threnody. 

High — high— cold and pure and white as 
the snowy summit of a great mountain, that 
single thin note sang and sang again. 

Louder grew the great winds. Rippling 
arpeggios raced through the rising torrent 
of the sorcerous music. 

Thunder of riven rocks — shrill screaming 
of earthquake -shaken lands — yelling of a 
deluge that poured down upon tossing for- 
ests. 

A heavy humming note, hollow and un- 
earthly, and I saw the gulfs between the 
worlds where the empty night of space makes 
a trackless desert. 

And suddenly, incongruously, a gay lilt- 
ing tune, with an infectious rocking rhythm, 
that brought to my mind bright colors and 
sunlit streams and fields. 

Ghast Rhymi stirred. 

For an instant awareness came back into 
his blue eyes. He saw me. 

And I saw the life-fires sink within that 
frail, ancient body. 

I knew that he was dying — that I had 
troubled his long peace — that he had re- 
linquished his casual hold upon life. 

I drew the harp toward me. I touched the 
controls. 

Ghast Rhymi sat before me. dead, the faint- 
est possible spark fading within that old 
brain. 

I sent the sorcerous spell of the harp blow- 
ing like a mighty wind upon the dying em- 
bers of Ghast Rhymi's life. 

As Orpheus drew back the dead Eurydice 
from Pluto's realm, so I cast my net of music, 
snared the soul of Ghast Rhymi, drew him 
back from death! 

He struggled at first. I felt his mind turn 
and writhe, trying to escape, but the harp 
had already found the key to his mind, and it 



: WORLD 47, 

would not let him go. Inexorably it drew him. 

The ember flickered — faded — brightened 
again. 

Louder sang the strings. Deeper roared 
the tumult of shaking waters. 

Higher the white, shrill note, pure as a 
star's icy light, leaped and ever rose. 

Roaring, racing, sweet with honey-musk, 
perfumed with flower-scent and ambergris, 
blazing with color, opal and blood-ruby and 
amethyst- blue, that mighty tapestry of color 
rippled and shook like a visible web of 
magic through the room. 

The web reached out. 

Swept around Ghast Rhymi like a fowler's 
snare! 

Back in those faded blue eyes the light of 
awareness grew. He had stopped struggling. 
He had given up the fight. It was easier to 
come back to life — to let me question him — 
than to battle the singing strings that could 
cage a man's very soul. 

Under the white beard the old man's lips 
moved, 

"Ganelon," he said. "I knew — when the 
harp sang — who played it. Well, ask your 
questions. And then let me die. I would not 
live in the days that are coming now. But 
you will live. Ganelon— and yet you will die 
too. That much I have read in the future." 

The hoary head bent slowly. For an instant 
Ghast Rhymi listened — and I listened too. 

The last, achingly sweet notes of the harp 
died upon the trembling air. 

Through the open windows came the muted 
clash of sword and the wordless shriek of a 
dying man. 



CHAPTER XIII 
Wot— Red War! 



PITY flooded me. The shadow of great- 
ness that had cloaked Ghast Rhymi was 
gone. He sat there, a shrunken, fragile 
old man, and I felt a momentary unreason- 
ing impulse to turn on my heel and leave 
him to drift back into his. peaceful abyss of 
thought. Once, I remembered, Ghast Rhymi 
had seemed a tall, huge figure — though he 
had never been that in my lifetime. But in my 
childhood I had sat at the feet of this Cov- 
enanter and looked up with awe at that 
majestic, bearded face with reverence. 
Perhaps there had been more life in that 



STARTLING STORIES 



face then, more warmth and humanity. It 
was remote now. It was like the face of a god, 
or of one who had looked upon too many 
gods. 

My tongue stumbled. 

"Master," I said. "I am sorry!" 

No light came into the distant blue gaze, 
yet I sensed a stirring. 

"You name me master?" he said. "You — 
Ganelon? It has been a long time since you 
humbled yourself to anyone." 

The taste of my triumph was ashes. I 
bowed my head. Yes, I had conquered Ghast 
Rhymi, and I did not like the savor of that 
conquest. 

"In the end the circle completes itself," 
the old man said quietly. "We are more kin 
than the others. Both you and I are human, 
Ganelon, not mutants. Because I am Leader 
of the Coven I let Medea and the others use 
my wisdom. But — but — " He hesitated. 

"For two decades my mind has dwelt in 
shadow," he went on. "Beyond good and 
evil, beyond life and the figures that move 
like puppets on the stream of life. When I 
was wakened, I would give the answers I 
knew. It did not matter. I had thought that 
I had lost all touch with reality. And that 
if death swept over every man and woman in 
the Dark World, it would not matter." 

I could net speak. I knew that I had done 
Ghast Rhymi a very great wrong in waken- 
ing him from his deep peace. 

The blue stare dwelt on me. 

"And I find that it does matter, after all. 
No blood of mine runs in your veins, Gane- 
lon. Yet we are kin. I taught you, as I would 
have taught my own son. I trained you for 
your task — to rule the Coven in my place. 
And now, I think I regret many things. 
Most of all the answer I gave the Cove- 
nanters after Medea brought you back from 
Earth-world." 

"You told them to kill me," I said. 

He nodded. 

"Matholch was afraid. Edeyrn sided with 
him. They made Medea agree. Matholch said, 
'Ganelon is changed. There is danger. Let the 
old man read the future and see what it 
holds.' So they came to me, and I let my " 
mind ride the winds of time and see what lay 
ahead." 

"And that was — ?" 

"The end of the Coven," Ghast Rhymi said. 
l 'If you lived. I foresaw the arms of Llyr 
reaching into the Dark World, and Matholch 
lying dead in a shadowed place, and doom 



upon Edeyrn and Medea. For time is fluid, 
Ganelon. It changes as men change. The 
probabilities alter. When you went into 
Earth-world, you were Ganelon. But you 
came back with a double mind. You have the 
memories of Edward Bond, which you can 
use as tools. Medea should have left you in 
Earth-world. But she loved you." 

"Yet she agreed to let them kill me," I 
said. 

"Do you know what was in her thoughts?" 
Ghast Rhymi asked. "In Caer Secaire, at the 
time of sacrifice, Llyr would come. And you 
have been sealed to Llyr. Did Medea think 
you could be killed, then?" 

A doubt grew within me. But Medea had 
led me, like a sheep to slaughter, in the 
procession to the Caer. If she could justify 
herself, let her. I knew that Edeyrn and 
Matholch could not, 

"I may let Medea live, then," I said. "But 
not the wolfling. I have already promised his 
life. And as for Edeyrn, she must perish." 

I showed Ghast Rhymi the Crystal Mask. 
He nodded. 

"But Llyr?" 

"I was sealed to Him as Ganelon," I said. 
"Now you say I have two minds. Or, at least, 
an extra set of memories, even though they 
are artificial. I am not willing to be liege to 
Llyr! I learned many things in the Earth- 
world. Llyr is no god!" 

The ancient head bent. A transparent hand 
rose and touched the ringlets of the beard. 
Then Ghast Rhymi looked at me, and he 
smiled. 

"So you know that, do you?" he asked. 
"I will tell you something, Ganelon, that no 
one else has guessed. You are not the first 
to come from Earth- world to the Dark 
World. I was the first." 

f" STARED at him with unconcealed 

M amazement. 

"And you were born in the Dark World; 
I was not," he said. "My flesh sprang from 
the dust of Earth. It has been very long 
since I crossed, and I can never retorn now, 
for my span is long outlived. Only here can 
I keep the life- spark burning within me, 
though I do not much care about that either. 
Yet I am Earth-born, and I knew Vortigern 
and the kings of Wales. I had my own hold- 
ings at Caer-Merdin, and a different sun 
from this red ember in the Dark World's sky 
shone upon Caer-Merdin! Blue sky, blue sea 
of Britain, the gray stones of the Druid altars 



THE DARK WORLD 



under the oak forests. That is my home, 
Ganelon. Was my home. Until my science, 
that men in those days called magic, brought 
me here, with a woman's aid. A Dark-World 
woman named Viviane." 

"You are Earth-born?" I said. 

"Once — yes. As I grew older here, very, 
very old, I regretted my exile. I had acquired 
enough of wisdom, I would have changed it 
all for one breath of the cool, sweet air that 
blew in from the Irish Sea when I was a boy. 
But never could I return. My body would 
fall to dust in the Earth-world. So I lost my- 
self in dreams — dreams of Earth, Ganelon." 

His blue eyes brightened with memories. 

His voice deepened. 

"In my dreams I brought back the old days. 
I stood again on the crags of Wales, watch- 
ing the salmon leaping in the waters of gray 
Usk. I saw Artorius again, and his father 
Uther, and I smelled the old smells of Britain 
in her youth. But they were dreams! 

"And dreams are not enough. For the sake 
of the love I bore the dust from which I 
sprang, for the sake of a wind that blew 
from ancient Ireland, I will help you now, 
Ganelon. I had never thought that life would 
matter to me any more. But that these abom- 
inations should lead a man of Earth to 
slaughter — no! And man of Earth you are 
now, though born on this world of sorcery!" 

He leaned forward, compelling me with his 
gaze. 

"You are right. Llyr is no god. He is— a 
monster. No more than that. And he can be 
slain." 

"With the Sword Called Llyr?" 

"Listen. Put these legends out of your 
mind. That is Llyr's power, and the power of 
the Dark World. All is veiled in mystic sym- 
bols of terror. But behind the veil lies simple 
truth. Vampire, werewolf, upas-tree — they 
all are biological freaks, mutations run wild! 
And the first mutation was Llyr. His birth 
split the one time- world into two, each 
spinning along its line of probability. He was 
a key factor in the temporal pattern of en- 
tropy. 

"Listen again. At birth, Llyr was human. 
But his mind was not as the minds of others. 
He had certain natural powers, latent powers, 
which ordinarily would not have developed 
in the race for a million years. Because they 
did develop in him too soon, they were 
warped and distorted, and put to evil ends. 
In (he future world of logic and science, his 
mental powers would have fitted. In the dark 



times of superstition, they did not fit too well 
So he developed, with the science at his 
command and the mental strength he had, in- 
to a monster. 

"Human once. Less human as he grew 
older and wiser in his alien knowledge. In 
Caer Llyr are machines which send out cer- 
tain radiations necessary to the existence of 
Llyr. Those radiations permeate the Dark 
World. They have caused other mutations, 
such as Matholch and Edeyrn and Medea. 

"Kill Llyr, and his machines will stop. 
The curse of abnormal mutations will be 
lifted. The shadow over this planet will be 
gone." 

' How may I kill Him?" I asked. 

"With the Sword Called Llyr. His life is 
bound up with that Sword, as a machine is 
dependent on its parts. I am not certain of 
the reason for this, Ganelon, but Llyr is not 
human — now. He is part machine and part 
pure energy and part something unimagin- 
able. But he was born of flesh, and he must 
maintain his contact with the Dark World, 
or die. The Sword is his contact." 

"Where is the Sword?" 

"At Caer Llyr," Ghast Rhymi said. "Go 
there. By the altar, there is a crystal pane. 
Don't you remember?" 

"I remember." 

"Break that pane. Then you will find the 
Sword Called Llyr." 

He sank back. His eyes closed, then opened 
again. 

I KNELT before him and he made the 
Ancient Sign above me. 
"Strange," he murmured, half to himself. 
"Strange that I should send a man to battle 
again, as I sent so many, long ago." 

The white head bent forward. Snowy 
beard lay upon the snowy robe. 

"For the sake of a wind that blew from 
Ireland," the old man whispered. 

Through the open windows a breath of air 
drifted, gently ruffling the white ringlets of 
hair and beard. . . . 

The winds of the Dark World stirred in the 
silent room, paused — and were gone! 
Now, indeed, I stood alone. . . . 
From Ghast Rhymi's chamber I went down 
the tower steps and into the courtyard. 

The battle was nearly over. Scarcely a 
score of the Castle's defenders were still on 
their feet. Around them Lorryn's pack rav- 
ened and yelled. Back to back, grimly silent, 
the dead-eyed guardsmen wove their blades 



JO 



STARTLING STORIES 



in a steel mesh that momentarily held at 
bay their attackers. 

There was no time to be wasted here. I 
caught sight of Lorryn's scarred face and 
made for him. He showed me his teeth in a 
triumphant grin. 

"We have them. Bond." 

"It took you long enough," I said. "These 
dogs must be slain quickly!" I caught a sword 
from a nearby woodsman. 

Power flowed up the blade and into the 
hilt— into me. 

I plunged into the thick of the battle. The 
foresters made way for me. Beside me Lorryn 
laughed quietly. 

Then I came face to face with a guardsman. 
His blade swung up in thrust and parry, and 
I twisted aside, so that his steel sang harm- 
lessly through the air. My sword-point leaped 
like a striking snake for his throat. The shock 
of metal grating on bone jarred my wrist. 

I tore the weapon free and glimpsed 
Lorryn, still grinning, engaging another of 
the guardsmen. 

"Kill them!" I shouted. "Kill them!" 

I did not wait for response. I went forward 
against the blind-eyed soldiers of Medea, 
slashing, striking, thrusting, as though these 
men were the Coven, my enemies! I hated 
each blankly staring face. Red tides of rage 
began to surge up, narrowing my vision and 
clouding my mind with hot mists. 

For a few moments I was drunk with the 
lust for killing. 

Lorryn's hands gripped my shoulders. His 
voice came. 

"Bond! Bond.'" 

The fogs were swept away. I stared around. 
Not one of the guardsmen was left alive. 
Bloody, hacked corpses lay sprawled on the 
gray flagstones of the courtyard. The woods- 
men, panting hard, were wiping their blades 
clean. 

"Did any escape to carry warning to Caer 
Secaire?" I asked. 

Despite his perpetual scarred grin, Lorryn 
looked troubled. 

"I'm not sure. I don't think so, but the 
place is a rabbit-warren." 

"The harm's done, then," I said. "We hadn't 
enough men to throw a cordon around the 
Castle." 

He grimaced. "Warned or not, what's the 
odds? We can slay the Covenanters as we 
killed their guards." 

"We ride to Caer Llyr," I said, watching 
him. 



I saw the shadow of fear in the cold gray 
eyes. Lorryn rubbed his grizzled beard and 
scowled. 

"I don't understand. Why?" 

"To kill Llyr." 

Amazement battled with ancient super- 
stitious terror in his face. His gaze searched 
mine and apparently read the answer he 
wanted. 

"To kill— that?" 

I nodded. "I've seen Ghast Rhymi. He told 
me the way." 

The men around us were watching and 
listening. Lorryn hesitated. 

"We didn't bargain for this," he said. "Yet 
1 by the gods! To kill Llyr!" 

Suddenly he sprang into action, shouting 
orders. Swords were sheathed. Men ran to 
untether the mounts. Within minutes we 
were in our saddles, riding out from the 
courtyard, the shadow of the Castle falling 
heavily upon us till the moon lifted above the 
tallest tower. 

I rose in my stirrups and looked back. Up 
there," dead, sat Ghast Rhymi, first of the 
Coven to die by my hand. I had killed him as 
surely as if I had plunged steel into his heart. 

I dropped back into the saddle, pressing 
heels into my horse's flanks. He bolted for- 
ward. Lorryn urged his steed level with me. 
Behind us the woodsmen strung out in a 
long, uneven line as we galloped across the 
low hills toward the distant mountains. It 
would be dawn before we could reach Caer 
Llyr. And there was no time to waste. 

MEDEA and Edeyrn and Matholch! The 
names of the three beat like muffled 
drums in my brain. Traitors to me, Medea 
no less than the others, for had she not 
bent before the wills of Edeyrn and Matholch, 
had she not been willing to sacrifice me? 
Death I would give Edeyrn and the wolfhng. 
Medea I might let live, but only as my slave, 
nothing more. 

With Ghast Rhymi dead, I was leader of 
the Coven! In the old man's tower, senti- 
mental weakness had nearly betrayed me. 
The weakness of Edward Bond, I thought. 
His memories had watered my will and di- 
luted my power. 

Now I no longer needed his memories. At 
my side swung the Crystal Mask and the 
Wand of Power. I knew how to get the Sword 
Called Llyr. It was Ganelon and not the 
weakling Edward Bond, who would make 
himself master of the Dark World. 



THE DARK WORLD 



51 



Briefly I wondered where Bond was now. 
When Medea had brought me through the 
Need-fire to the Dark World, Edward Bond, 
at that same moment, must have returned 
to Earth. I smiled ironically, imagining the 
surprise that must have been his. Perhaps 
he had tried, and was still trying, to get back 
to the Dark World. But without Freydis to 
aid him, his attempts would be useless. Frey- 
dis was helping me now, not Bond. 

And Bond would stay on Earth! The sub- 
stitution would not occur again if I could 
help it. And I could help it. Strong Freydis 
might be, but could she stand against the 
man who had killed I Ayr'! I did not think 
so. 

I sent a sly sidewise glance at Lorryn. 
Fool! Aries too was another of the same 
breed. Only Freydis had sense enough not 
to trust me. 

The strongest of my enemies must die first 
— Llyr. Then the Coven. After that, the 
woodsmen would taste my power. They 
would learn that I was Ganelon, not the 
Earth weakling, Edward Bond! 

I thrust the memories of Bond out of my 
mind. I drove them away. I banished them 
utterly. 

As Ganelon I would battle Llyr. 
And as Ganelon I would rule the Dark 
World! 

Rule — with iron and fire! 



CHAPTER XIV 
Fire of Life 



HOURS before we came to Caer Llyr we 
saw it, at first a blacker blackness 
against the night sky. and slowly, gradually, 
deepening into an ebon mountain as the rose- 
gray dawn spread behind us. 

Our cantering shadows fells before us, to be 
trodden under the horses' hoofs. Cool, fresh 
winds whispered — whispered of the sacrifice 
at Caer Secaire, of the seeking minds of the 
Coven that spied across the land. 

But Caer Llyr loomed on the edge of dark- 
ness ahead — guarding the night! 

Huge the Caer was, and alien. It seemed 
shapeless, a Titan mound of jumbled black 
rock thrown almost casually together. Yet I 
knew that there was design in its strange 
geometry. 



Two jet pillars, each fifty feet tall, stood 
like the legs of a colossus, and between them 
was an unguarded portal. Only there was 
there any touch of color about the Caer. 

A veil of flickering rainbows played lam- 
bently, like a veil, across that threshold. 
Opalescent and faintly glowing, the shadow- 
curtain swung and quivered as though gen- 
tle winds drifted through gossamer folds of 
silk. 

Fifty feet high was that curtain and twen- 
ty feet broad. Straddling it the ebon pillars 
rose. And above and beyond, towering 
breathtakingly to the dawn-clouded sky, 
squatted the Caer, a mountain-like structure 
that had never been built by man. 

From Caer Llyr a breath of fear came cold- 
ly, scattering the woodsmen like leaves before 
a gale. They broke ranks, deployed out and 
drew together again as I raised my hand and 
Lorryn called a command. 

I stared around at the low hills surround- 
ing us. 

" Never in my memory or my father's 
memory have men come this close to Caer 
Llyr," Lorryn said. "Except for Covenanters, 
of course. Nor would the foresters follow me 
now. Bond. They follow you." 

How far would they follow? My wonder- 
ing thought was cut off as a woodsman shout- 
ed warning. He rose in his stirrups and 
pointed south. 

Over the hills, riding like demons in a 
dusty cloud, came horsemen, their armor 
glittering in the red sunlight! 

"So someone did escape from the Castle," 
I said between my teeth. "And the Coven 
have been warned, after all!" 

Lorryn grinned and shrugged. "Not many." 

"Enough to delay us." I frowned, trying 
to make the best plan. "Lorryn, stop them. 
If the Coven ride with their guards, kill them 
too. But hold them back from the Caer un- 
til—" 

"Until?" 

"I don't know. I'll need time. How much 
time I can't say. Battling and conquering 
Llyr won't be the work of a moment." 

"Nor is it the work of one man," Lorryn 
said doubtfully. "With us to aid you, victory 
will fly at your elbow." 

"I know the weapon against Llyr," I said. 
"One man can wield it. But keep the guards- 
men back, and the Covenanters too. Give 
me time!" 

"There will be no difficulty about that," 
Lorryn said, a flash of excitement fighting 



52 



STARTLING STORIES 



his eyes. "For look!" 

Angling across the hills, riding one by one 
into view, hotly pursuing the armored rout, 
came green-clad figures, spurring their 
horses forward. 

Those figures were woodsmen's women 
whom we had left behind in the valley. They 
were armed now, for i saw the glitter of 
swords. Nor were swords their only weapons. 
A spiteful crack echoed, a puff of smoke 
arose, and one of the guardsmen flung up his 
hands and toppled from his mount. 

Edward Bond had known how to make 
rifles! And the woodsfolk had learned how 
to use them! 

At the head of the woodswomen I noted 
two lithe forms, one a slim, supple girl whose 
ashy-blond hair streamed behind her like 
a banner. Aries. 

And at her side, on a great white steed, 
rode one whose giant form I could not mis- 
take even from this distance. Freydis spurred 
forward like a Valkyrie galloping into battle. 

Freydis and Aries, and the women of the 
forest! 

Lorryn's laugh held exultation. 

"We have them. Bond!" he cried, his fist 
tightening on the rein. "Our women at their 
heels, and we to strike from the flank — we'll 
catch and crush them between hammer and 
anvil. Gods grant the shape-changer rides 
there!" 

"Then ride," I snapped. "No more talk! 
Ride and crush them. Hold them back from 
the Caer!" 

With that I raced my steed forward, lying 
low on the horse's mane, driving like a thun- 
derbolt toward the black mountain ahead. 
Did Lorryn know how suicidal might be the 
mission on which I had sent him? Matholch 
he might slay, and even Medea. But if Edeyrn 
rode with the Coven guards, if ever she 
dropped the hood from her face, neither 
sword nor bullet could save the woodsmen! 

£2 TILL they would give me time. And if 
the woodsmen's ranks were thinned, so 
much the better for me later. I would deal 
with Edeyrn in my own way when the time 
came. 

Ahead the black columns stood. Behind 
me a shouting rose, and a crackle of rifle-fire. 
I looked back, but a fold of the hills hid the 
combat from my eyes. 

I sprang from the horse's back and stood 
before the pillars — between them. The corus- 
cating veil sparkled and ran like milky water 



before me. Above, towering monstrously, 
stood the Caer, the focus of the evil that had 
spread across the Dark World. 

And in it reposed Llyr, my enemy! 

I still had the sword I had taken from 
one of the woodsmen, but I doubted if ordi- 
nary steel would be much good within the 
Caer. Nevertheless I made sure the weapon 
was at my side as I walked forward. 

I stepped through the veil. 

For twenty paces I moved forward in utter 
darkness. Then light came. 

But it was the light that beats upon a snow 
plain, so bright, so glittering, that it blinds. 
I stood motionless, waiting. Presently the 
dazzle resolved itself into flickering atoms 
of brightness, weaving and darting in ara- 
besque patterns. Not cold, no! 

Tropical warmth beat upon me. 

The shining atoms drove at me. They tin- 
gled upon my face and hands. They sank 
like intangible things through my garments 
and were absorbed by my skin. They did not 
lull me. Instead, my body greedily drank 
that weird snowstorm of— energy? — and was 
in turn energized by it. 

Tide of life sang ever stronger in my veins. 

I saw three gray shadows against the white. 
Two tall and one slight and small as a child's 
shadow. 

I knew them. I knew who cast them. 

I heard Matholch's voice. 

"Kill him. Kill him now." 

And Medea's answer. 

"No. He need not die. He must not." 

"But he must!" Matholch snarled, and 
Edeyrn's sexless, thin voice echoed his. 

"He is dangerous, Medea. He must die, 
and only on Llyr's altar can he be slain. For 
he is the Sealed of Llyr." 

"He need not die," Medea said stubbornly. 
"If he is made harmless — weaponless — he 
may live." 

"How?" Edeyrn asked, and for answer the 
red witch stepped forward out of the dazzling 
white shimmer. 

No longer a shadow. No longer a two-di- 
mensional grayness. She stood before me — 
Medea, witch of Colchis. 

Her dark hair fell to her knees. Her dark 
gaze slanted at me. Evil she was, and al- 
luring as Lilith. 

I dropped my hand to sword-hilt 

I did not. I could not move. Faster swirled 
the darting bright atoms, whirling about me, 
sinking into my body to betray me. 

I could not move. 



THE DARK WORLD 



S3 



Beyond Medea the twin shadows bent for- 
ward. 

"The power of Llyr holds him," Edeyrn 
whispered. "But Ganelon is strong, Medea. 
If he breaks his fetters, we are lost." 

"By then he will have no weapons," Medea 
said, and smiled at me. 

Now indeed I knew my danger. Very 
easily my steel could have bitten through 
Medea's soft throat, and heartily I wished 
it had done so long ago. For I remembered 
Medea's power. The mutation that set her 
apart from others. That which had caused 
her to be named — vampire. 



I remembered victims of hers that I had 
seen. The dead-eyed guardsmen, the Castle 
slaves, hollow shells of men, the walking 
dead, all soul drained from them, and most 
of their life-force as well. 

Her arms stole around my neck. Her 
mouth lifted to mine. 

In one hand she held her black wand. It 
touched my head, and a gentle shock, not 
unpleasant, crawled along my scalp. The — 
the conductor, I knew, and a gust of insane 
laughter shook me at the incongruity of the 
weapon. 

[Turn page] 



WHEN THE MOON VANISHES! 



pAPTAIN FUTURE and his companions were 
sojourning on Asteroid No. 697 — one of 
the countless worlds explored by the Futuremen 
—and they'd left Grag, the metal man, on the 
Moon. 

Suddenly Joan Randall sounded a warning. 

"Captain Future," she said, "you're wanted 
badly at headquarters. Ezra Gurney has or- 
dered — " 

"He's only a marshal," said Curt Newton, 
otherwise known as Captain Future. "Perhaps 
I can ignore his orders!" 

"But — we can't find Grag!" 

"Nonsense!" scoffed Curt. "He wouldn't 
stray from the Moon." 

"That's just it," said Joan. "We can't find the 
Moon either!" 



Join Curt Newton and the Futuremen as they find themselves on 
Dimension X — battling their old foe, Ul Quorn — in 

THE SOLAR INVASION 

By MANLY WADE WELLMAN 




A COMPLETE CAPTAIN FUTURE NOVEL — NEXT ISSUE! 



54 STARTLING 

But there was no magic here. There was 
science, of a high order, a science made pos- 
sible only for those who were trained to it, 
or for those who were mutants. Medea drank 
energy, but not through sorcery. I had seen 
that wand used too often to believe that. 

The wand opened the closed circuit of the 
mind and its energies. It tapped the brain, 
as a copper wire can tap a generated current. 

Diverting the life-force to Medea! 

rMIHE shining mist-motes swirled faster. 
I They closed in around us, bathing us in 
a swirling cloak. The gray shadowiness fell 
away from Edeyrn and Matholch. Dun- 
cloeked, cowled dwarf and lean, grinning 
wolfting stood there, watching. 

Edeyrn's face I could not see, though the 
deadly cold crept from beneath the cowl 
like an icy wind. Matholch's tongue crept 
out and circled his lips. His eyes were bright 
with triumph and excitement. 

A numbing, lethargic languor was stealing 
over me. Against my mouth Medea's lips 
grew hotter, more ardent, as my own lips 
chilled. Desperately I tried to move, to grasp 
my sword-hilt. 

I could not. 

Now the bright veil thinned again. Be- 
yond Matholch and Edeyrn I could see a vast 
space, so enormous that my gaze failed to 
pierce its violet depths. A stairway led up 
to infinite heights. 

A golden glow burned high above. 

But behind Matholch and Edeyrn, a little 
to one side, stood a curiously -carved pedestal 
whose front was a single pane of transparent 
glass. It shone steadily with a cool blue light. 
What lay within I did not know, but I recog- 
nized that crystal pane. 

Ghast Rhymi had spoken of it. Behind it 
must lie the Sword Called Llyr. 

Faintly now— faintly— I heard Matholch's 
satisfied chuckle. 

"Ganelon, my love, do not struggle against 
me," Medea whispered. "Only I can save 
you. When your madness passes, we will re- 
turn to the Castle." 

Yes, for I would be no menace then. Ma- 
tholch would not bother to harm me. As a 
mindless, soulless thing I would return to 
the Castle of the Coven as Medea's slave. 

I, Ganelon, hereditary Lord of the Coven 
and the Sealed of Llyr! 

The golden glow high above brightened. 
Crooked lightnings rushed out from it and 
were lost in the violet dimness. 



STORIES 

My eyes found that golden light that was 
the Window of Llyr. 

My mind reached out toward it. 

My soul strained to it! 

Witch and vampire-mutation Medea might 
be — or sorceress — but she had never been 
sealed to Llyr. No dark power beat latently 
in her blood as it beat in mine. Well I knew 
now that, no matter how I might renounce 
my allegiance to Llyr, there yet had been a 
bond. Llyr had power over me, but I could 
draw upon his power as well! 

I drew on that power now! 

The golden window brightened. Again 
forked lightnings ran out from it and were 
gone. A muffled, heavy drum-heat muttered 
from somewhere, like the pulse of Llyr. 

Like the heart of Llyr, stirring from sleep 
to waking. 

Through me power rushed, quickening my 
flesh from its lethargy. I drew on Uyr's 
power without measuring the cost. I saw fear 
flash across Matholch's face, and Edeyrn 
made a quick gesture. 

"Medea," she said. 

But Medea had already sensed that quick- 
ening. I felt her body quiver convulsively 
against mine. Avidly she pressed against 
me, faster and faster she drank the energy 
that made me alive. 

But the energy of Llyr poured into me! 
Hollow thunders roared in the vast spaces 
above. The golden window blazed with daz- 
zling brightness. And around us now the 
sparkling motes of light paled, shrank, and 
were gone. 

"Kill him!" Matholch howled. "He holds 
Llyr!" 

He sprang forward. 

From somewhere a bloody figure in dented 
armor stumbled. I saw Lorryn's scarred face 
twist in amazement as he blinked at the 
tableau. His sword, red to the hilt, was bare 
in his hand. 

He saw me with Medea's arms about my 
neck. 

He saw Edeyrn. 

And he saw Matholch! 

A wordless, inarticulate sound ripped from 
Lorryn's throat. He lifted high the sword. 

As I tore myself free from Medea's grip, 
as I sent her reeling away, I saw Matholch's 
wand come up. I reached for my own wand 
but there was no need. 

Lorryn's blade sang. Matholch's hand, still 
gripping the wand, was severed at the wrist 
Blood spouted from cut arteries. 



THE DARK WORLD 



Howling, the shape-changer dropped for- 
ward. The lycanthropic change came upon 
him. Hypnotism, mutation, dark sorcery — I 
could not tell. But the thing that sprang at 
Lorryn's throat was not human. 

Lorryn laughed. He sent his sword spin- 
ning away. 

He met the wolfling's charge, bracing him- 
self strongly and caught the thing by throat 
and leg. Fanged jaws snapped viciously at 
him. 

Lorryn heaved the monster above his head. 
His joints cracked with the inhuman strain. 
One instant Lorryn stood there, holding his 
enemy high, while the wolf-jaws snarled and 
strove to rend him. 

He dashed the wolf down upon the stones! 

I heard bones snap like rotten twigs. I 
heard a scream of dying, terrible agony from 
a gaping muzzle from which blood poured. 

Then Matholch, in his own shape, broken, 
dying, lay writhing at our feet! 



CHAPTER XV 
Lair of Power 



MIRACULOUSLY the weakness that 
had chained me was gone. Llyr's 
strength poured through me. I unsheathed 
my sword and ran past Matholch's body, ig- 
noring Lorryn who stood motionless, staring 
down. I ran to the pedestal with its blue- 
litten pane. 

I gripped the sword's blade and sent the 
heavy hilt crashing against the glass. 

There was a tinkling of pizzicato notes, a 
singing of thin goblin laughter. The shards 
fell clashing at my feet. 

At my feet also dropped a sword. A sword 
of crystal, nearly five feet long — pommel and 
guard and blade all of clearest glass. 

It had been part of the window. For within 
the hollow pedestal was nothing at all. The 
sword had been part of the pane, so that my 
breaking the crystal had released the weapon 
from its camouflaged hiding-place. 

Along the sleek blade blue light ran. With- 
in the crystal blue fires burned wanly. I 
bent and picked up the sword. The hilt was 
warm and alive. 

The Sword Called Llyr in my left hand, 
the sword with blade of steel in my right, I 
stood upright. 
Paralyzing cold breathed past me. 



I knew that cold. 

So I did not turn. I swung the steel sword 
under my arm, snatched the Crystal Mask 
from my belt, and donned it. I drew the 
Wand of Power. 

Only then did I turn. 

Through the Mask queer glimmers and 
shiftings ran, distorting what I saw. The 
properties of light were oddly altered by the 
Mask. But it had its purpose. It was a filter. 

Matholch lay motionless now. Beyond his 
body Medea was rising to her feet, her dark 
hair disordered. Facing me stood Lorryn, 
a stone man, only his eyes alive in his set, 
white face. 

He was staring at Edeyrn, whose sleek dark 
head I saw. Her back was toward me. The 
cowl had been flung back upon her shoul- 
ders. 

Lorryn sagged down, the life going out of 
him. Bonelessly as water he collapsed. 
He lay dead. 

Then, slowly, slowly, Edeyrn turned. 

She was tiny as a child, and her face was 
like a child's too, in its immature roundness. 
But I did not see her face, for even through 
the Crystal Mask burned the Gorgon's glare. 

The blood stilled within me. A slow tide 
of ice crept with iron lethargy into my brain 
and cold weariness engulfed me. 

Only in the eyes of the Gorgon fire burned. 

Deadly radiations were there, wliat Earth- 
scientists call ectogenetic rays, but limited till 
now to the plant-world. Only the mad muta- 
tion that had created Edeyrn could have 
brought from hell such a nightmare trick of 
biology. 

But I did not fall. I did not die. The radi- 
ations were filtered, made harmless, by the 
vibration-warping properties of the Mask 
I wore. 

I lifted the Wand of Power. 

Red fires blasted from it. Scarlet, licking 
tongues seared out toward Edeyrn. 

Lashes of flame tore at her, like erimson 
whips that burned and left bloody weals on 
that calm child-face. 

She drew back, the lance of her stare driv- 
ing at me. 

With her, step by step, retreated Medea. 
Toward the foot of the great stairway that 
led to Llyr's Window. 

The whips of fire seared across her eyes. 

She turned and, stumbling, began to run 
up the stairway. Medea paused, her arms 
lifted in an uncompleted gesture. But in my 
face she read no softening. 



56 STARTLIN 

She, too, turned, and followed Edeyrn. 

I dropped the useless sword of steel. Wand 
in left hand, the Sword Called Llyr in my 
right, I followed them. 

As my foot touched the first step, a trem- 
bling vibration shook the violet air about me. 
Now almost I regretted having called upon 
Llyr to break Medea's spell. For Llyr was 
awake, watching, and warned. 

The pulse of Llyr muttered through the 
huge Caer. The golden lightnings flamed 
from the Window high above. 

Briefly two black, small silhouettes showed 
against that amber glow. They were Edeym 
and Medea, climbing. 

After them I went. And at each step the 
way grew harder. I seemed to walk through 
a thickening, invisible torrent that was like 
a wind or a wave flowing down from that 
shining window, striving to tear me from my 
foothold, to rip the crystal sword from my 
grip. 

CP AND up I went. Now the Window 
was a glaring blaze of yellow fires. 
The lightnings crackled out incessantly, while 
rocking crashes of thunder reverberated 
along the vaulted abysses of the Caer. I 
leaned forward as though against a gale. 
Doggedly I fought my way up the stair. 
There was someone behind me. 
I did not turn. I dared not, for fear the 
torrent would sweep me from my place. I 
crawled up the last few steps, and came out 
on a level platform of stone, a disc-shaped 
dais, on which stood a ten-foot cube. Three 
of its sides were of black rock. The side 
that faced me was a glaring blaze of amber 
brilliance. 

Far below, dizzyingly far, was the floor of 
the Caer. Behind me the stairway ran down 
to those incredible depths, and the tremen- 
dous wind still blew upon me, pouring out 
from the Window, seeking to whirl me to 
my death. 

To the Window's left stood Edeyrn, to its 
right, Medea. And in the Window — 

The blazing golden clouds whirled, thick- 
ened, tossed like storm-mists, while still the 
blinding flashes spurted from them. The 
thunder never ceased now. But it pulsed. It 
rose and fell in steady cadence, in unison 
with the heart-beat of Llyr. 

Monster or mutation — human once, or half- 
human — Llyr had grown in power since then. 
Ghast Rhymi had warned me. 

Part machine and part pure energy and 



; STORIES 

part something unthinkable, the power of 
Llyr blasted through the golden clouds upon 
me! 

The Wand of Power dropped from my 
hand. I lifted the crystal sword and man- 
aged one forward step. Then the hell-tide 
caught me, and I could advance no further. 
I could only fight, with every bit of my 
strength, against the avalanche that strove 
to thrust me toward the edge of the hanging 
platform. 

Louder grew the thunders. Brighter the 
lightnings flamed. 

The cold stare of Edeyrn chilled me. 
Medea's face was inhuman now. Yellow 
clouds boiled out from the Window and 
caught Edeyrn and Medea in their embrace. 

Then they rolled toward me and over- 
whelmed me. 

Dimly I could see the blighter glow that 
marked Llyr's Window. And two vague 
silhouettes, Edeyrn and Medea. 

I strove to step forward. Instead I was 
borne back toward the edge — back and back. 

Great arms caught me about the waist. A 
braid of white hair tossed by my eyes. The 
giant strength of Freydis stood like a wall 
of iron between me and the abyss. 

From the corner of my eye I saw that she 
had wound a scrap torn from her white robe 
about her head, shielding her from the Gor- 
gon's stare. Blindly, guided by some strange 
instinct, the Valkyrie thrust me forward. 

Against us the golden clouds rolled, senti- 
ent, palpable, veined with white lightnings 
and shaking with deep thunders. 

Freydis strove silently. I bent forward 
like a bow, battering against the torrent. 

Step by step I won forward, Freydis to 
aid me. Ever she stood as a bulwark against 
my back. I could hear her panting breath, 
great gasps that ripped from her throat as 
she linked her strength with mine. 

My chest felt as though a white-hot core 
of iron was driven through it. Yet I went 
on. Nothing existed now but that golden 
brightening amid the clouds, clouds of cre- 
ation, sentient with the shaking tumult of 
breaking universes, worlds beyond worlds 
crashing into ruin under the power of 
Uyr. . . . 

I stood before the Window. 

Without volition my arm swept up. I 
brought the Sword Called Llyr smashing 
down upon Llyr's Window. 

In my hand the sword broke. 

It fell to tinkling fragments at my feet. 



THE DAI 

The veined blue glimmers writhed and coiled 
about the broken blade. 

Were sucked into the Window. 

Back rushed the cloud-masses. A tremen- 
dous, nearly unbearable vibration ripped 
through the Caer, shaking it like a sapling. 
The golden clouds were drawn through the 
Window. 

With them went Edeyrn and Medea! 

One glimpse I had of them, the brand of 
my fire like a red mask across Edeyrn's eyes, 
Medea's face despairing and filled with a hor- 
ror beyond life, her gaze fixed on me with 
an imploring plea that was infinitely terrible. 
Then they vanished! 

For one instant I saw through the Window. 
I saw something beyond space and time and 
dimension, a writhing, ravening chaos that 
bore down upon Medea and Edeyrn and a 
golden core of light that I knew for Llyr. 

Once almost human, Llyr, at the end, bore 
no relation to anything remotely human. 

The grinding millstones of Chaos crushed 
the three! 

The thunder died. 

Before me stood the altar of Llyr. But it 
held no Window now. All four sides were 
of black, dead stone! 



CHAPTER XVI 
Self Against Self 



BLACKNESS and black stones were the 
last things I saw, before dark oblivion 
closed down over me like folding wings. It 
was as if Llyr's terrible resistance was all 
that had held me upright in the last fierce 
stages of our struggle. As he fell, so fell 
Ganelon at the foot of the Windowless altar. 

How long I lay there I do not know. But 
slowly, slowly Caer Llyr came back around 
me, and I knew I was lying prostrate upon 
the altar. I sat up painfully, the dregs of 
exhaustion still stiffening my body, though 
I knew I must have slept, for that exhaustion 
was no longer the overwhelming tide that 
had flooded me as I fell. 

Beyond me, at the head of the great steep 
of stairs, Freydis lay, half . stretched upon 
the steps as if she had striven to return to 
her people in the moment before collapsing. 
Her eyes were still bound, and her mighty 
arms lay flung out upon the platform, all 
strength drained from them by the fierceness 



K WORLD 57 

of our battle. Strangely, as she lay there, 
she brought back to my double-minded 
memories the thought of a figure from Earth 
— another mighty woman in white robes, with 
bandaged eyes and upraised arms, blind 
Justice holding her eternal scales. Faintly I 
smiled at the thought. In the Dark World — 
my world, now — Justice was Ganelon, and 
not blind. 

Freydis stirred. One hand lifted uncer- 
tainly to the cloth across her eyes. I let her 
waken. Presently we must struggle again 
together, Justice and I. But I did not doubt 
who would prevail. 

I rose to my knees, and heard a silvery 
tinkling as something slid in fragments from 
my shoulder. The Mask, broken when I fell. 
Its crystal shards lay among those other 
shards which had blasted Llyr from the Dark 
World when the Sword broke. I thought of 
the strange blue lightnings which had 
wrought at last what no other thing in the 
Dark World could accomplish — Llyr's de- 
struction. And I thought I understood. 

He had passed too far beyond this world 
ever to touch it except in the ceremonies of 
the Golden Window. Man, demon, god, mu- 
tation into namelessness — whatever he had 
been, he had kept but one link with the Dark 
World which spawned him. A link enshrined 
in the Sword Called Llyr. By that talisman 
he could return for the sacrifices which fed 
him, return for the great ceremonies of the 
Sealing that had made me half his own. But 
only by that talisman. 

So it must be safely hidden to be his bridge 
for the returning. And safely hidden it was. 
Without Ghast Rhymi's knowledge, who 
could have found it? Without the strength 
of the great Lord Ganelon — well, yes, and 
the strength of Freydis too — who could have 
won close enough to the window to shatter 
the Sword upon the only thing in the Dark 
World that could break it? Yes, Llyr had 
guarded his talisman as strongly as any 
guard could be. But vulnerable he was, to the 
one man who could wield that Sword. 

So the Sword broke, and the bridge be- 
tween worlds broke, and Llyr was gone into 
a chaos from which there could never be a 
returning. 

Medea, too — red witch of Colchis, lost love, 
drinker of life, gone beyond recalling. . * . 
For a moment I closed my eyes. 
"Well, Ganelon?" 

I looked up. Freydis was smiling grimly at 
me from beneath the uplifted blindfold. I 



58 



STARTLING STORIES 



rose to my feet and watched in silence while 
she got to hers. Triumph flooded through 
me in great waves of intoxicating warmth. 
The world I had just wakened to was wholly 
mine now, and not this woman nor any other 
human should balk me of my destiny. Had 
I not vanquished Llyr and slain the last of 
the Coven? And was I not stronger in magic 
than any man or woman now who walked 
the Dark World? I laughed, the deep sound 
echoing from the high vaults about us and 
rolling back in reverberant exultation until 
that which had been Caer Llyr was alive 
with the noise of my mirth. But Llyr was 
here no longer. 

"Let this be Caer Ganelon!" I said, hear- 
ing the echo of my own name come rolling 
back as if the castle itself replied. 

"Ganelon!" I shouted. "Caer Ganelon!" 
I laughed to hear the whole vast hollow re- 
peating my name, While the echoes still 
rolled I spoke to Freydis. 

"You have a new master now, you forest 
people! Because you helped me you shall 
be rewarded, old woman, but I am master 
of the Dark World— I, Ganelon!" And the 
walls roared back to me, "Ganelon — Gane- 
lon!" 

Freydis smiled. 

"Not so fast, Covenanter," she said calmly. 
"Did you think I trusted you?" 

I gave her a scornful smile. "What can 
you do to me now? Only one thing could 
slay me before today — Llyr Himself. Now 
Llyr is gone, and Ganelon is immortal! You 
have no power to touch me, sorceress!" 

She straightened on the step, her ageless 
face a little below mine. There was a sure- 
ness in her eyes that sent the first twinge 
of uneasiness into my mind. Yet what I had 
said was true for no one in the Dark World 
could harm me, now. Yet Freydis' smile did 
not waver. 

"Once I sent you through limbo into the 
Earth World," she said. "Could you stop me 
if I sent you there again?" 

RELIEF quieted my tremor of unease. 
"Tomorrow or the next day — yes, I 
could stop you. Today, no. But I am Gane- 
lon now, and I know the way back. I am 
Ganelon, and forewarned, and I think you 
could not so easily send me Earthward again, 
naked of memories and clothed in another 
man's past. I remember and I could return. 
You would waste your time and mine, Frey- 
dis. Yet try it, if you will, and I warn you, 



I should be back again before your spell was 
finished." 

Her quiet smile did not falter. She folded 
her arms, hiding her hands in the flowing 
sleeves. She was very sure of herself. 

"You think you are a godling, Ganelon," 
she said. "You think no mortal power can 
touch you now. You have forgotten one 
thing. As Llyr had his weakness, as Edeyrn 
did, and Medea and Matholch so have you, 
Covenanter. In this world there is no man 
to match you. But in the Earth World there 
is, Lord Ganelon! In that world your equal 
lives, and I mean to call him out to fight one 
last battle for the freedom of the Dark World. 
Edward Bond could slay you, Ganelon!" 

I felt the blood leave my face, a little wind 
of chill like Edeyrn's glance breathed over 
me. I had forgotten. Even Llyr, by his own 
unimaginable hand, could have died. And I 
could die by my own hand too. or by the 
hand of that other self who was Edward 
Bond. 

"Fool!" I said. "Dotard! Have you forgot- 
ten that Bond and I can never stand in the 
same world? When I came, he vanished out 
of this land, just as I must vanish if you 
bring him here. How can a man and his re- 
flection ever come hand to hand? How could 
he touch me, old woman?" 

"Easily," she smiled. "Very easily. He 
cannot fight you here, nor in the Earth World. 
That is true. But limbo, Ganelon? Have you 
forgotten limbo?" 

Her hands came out of her sleeves. There 
was a rod of blinding silver in each. Before 
I could stir she had brought the rods to- 
gether, crossing them before her smiling face. 
At the intersection forces of tremendous 
power blazed into an instant's being, forces 
that streamed from the poles of the world and 
could touch only for the beat of a second if 
that world were not to be shaken into frag- 
ments. I felt the building reel below me. 

I felt the gateway open. . . . 

Here was grayness, nothing but oblivion 
made visible all around me. I staggered with 
the suddenness of it, the shock, and the ter- 
rible tide of anger that came surging up 
through my whole body at the knowledge of 
Freydis' trickery. It was not to be endured, 
this magicking of the Dark World's lord! 
I would fight my way back, and the ven- 
geance I would wreak upon Freydis would be 
a lesson to all. 

Out of the greyness a mirror loomed be- 
fore me. A mirror? I saw my own face, be- 



THE DARK WORLD 



59 



wildered, uncomprehending, staring back into 
my eyes. But I was not wearing the ragged 
blue garments of sacrifice which I had donned 
so many aeons ago in the Castle of the 
Coven. I seemed to wear Earth garments, 
and I seemed not quite myself, not quite 
Ganelon. I seemed — 

"Edward Bond!" said the voice of Freydis 
behind me. 

The reflection of myself glanced across my 
shoulder, and a look of recognition and un- 
utterable relief came over it. 

"Freydis!" he cried, in my own voice. 
"Freydis, thank God! I've tried so hard — " 

"Wait," Freydis stopped him. "Listen. 
There is one last trial before you. This man 
is Ganelon. He has undone all your work 
among the forest people. He has slain Llyr 
and the Coven. There is none in the Dark 
World to stay his hand if he wins his way 
back to it. Only you can stop him, Edward 
Bond. Only you." 

I did not wait for her to say anything more. 
I knew what must be done. I lunged for- 
ward before he could speak or stir, and drove 
a heavy blow into the face that might have 
been my own. It was a strange thing to do. 
It was a hard thing. At the last moment my 
muscles almost refused me, for it was as if 
I struck myself. 

I saw him reel back, and my own head 
reeled in imagination, so that the first blow 
rocked us both. 

He caught himself a dozen feet away and 
stood for a moment, unsteady on his feet, 
looking at me with a confusion that might 
have been the mirror of my own face, for I 
knew there was confusion there too. 

Then anger flushed those bewildering, fa- 
miliar features, and I saw blood break from 
the corner of his mouth and trickle across 



his chin. I laughed savagely. That blood, 
somehow, made him my enemy. I had seen 
the blood of enemies, springing out in the 
wake of my blows, too often to mistake him 
now for anything but what he was. Myself — 
and my deadliest foe. 

He dropped into a half-crouch and came 
for me, stooping to protect his body from 
my fists. I wished fervently for a sword or 
a gun. I have never cared for an equal fight, 
as Ganelon does not fight for sport, but to 
win. But this fight must be terribly, unbe- 
lievably equal. 

HE DODGED beneath my blow, and I 
felt the rocking jar of what seemed 
to be my own fist jolting against my cheek- 
bone. He danced back, light-footed, out of 
range. 

Rage came snarling up in my throat. I 
wanted nothing of this boxing, this game 
fought by rules. Ganelon fought to win! I 
roared at him from the full depth of my lungs 
and hurled myself forward in a crushing em- 
brace that carried us both heavily to the 
grey sponginess that was limbo's floor. My 
fingers sank delightfully in his throat. I 
groped savagely for his eyes. He grunted 
with effort and I felt his fist thud into ray 
ribs, and felt the sharp white pain of break- 
ing bone. 

So wholly was he myself, and I he, that for 
an instant I was not sure whose rib had 
snapped beneath whose blow. Then I drew 
a deep breath and sobbed it out again half 
finished as pain like bright fight flashed 
through my body, and I knew it was my own 
rib. 

The knowledge maddened me. Careless of 
pain or caution, I drove my fists savagely into 
[Turn page] 



What Would Happen if Civilization Were to Collapse? 

jyjEN have always wondered what would happen to the sur- 
vivors were our present civilization destroyed — and humanity 
thrown back upon the none- too- gentle arms of Nature. Who 
would then be the leaders in the race? How would the survivors 
meet the onslaughts of the elements and of wild beasts? 

This fascinating and adventurous topic is dealt with by Francis 
Flagg in AFTER ARMAGEDDON— next issue's Hall of Fame 
Classic. It's a distinguished science fiction masterpiece! 




60 STARTLO 

him at blind random, feeling exultantly the 
crackle of bone beneath my knuckles, the 
spurt of blood over my hard-clenched hands. 
We strove together in a terrible locked em- 
brace, there upon the floor of limbo, in a 
nightmare that had no real being, except for 
the pain shooting through me after each 
breath. 

But in a moment or two, I knew somehow, 
very surely, that I was his master. And this 
is how I knew. He rolled half over to jab a 
hard blow into my face, and before the blow 
began, I had blocked it. I had knovm. He 
squirmed from beneath me and braced him- 
self to strike me again in the ribs, and before 
he could strike, I had twisted sidewise away. 
Again I had knovm. 

For I had been Edward Bond once, in every 
way that matters. I had lived in his memory 
and his world. And I knew Edward Bond as 
I knew myself. Instinct seemed to tell me 
what he would do next He could not out- 
think me, and so he could not hope to out- 
fight me, to whom his every thought was re- 
vealed in the moment before he could act 
upon it, 

Even in the pain of my broken rib, I 
laughed then. Freydis had overreached her- 
self at last! In smothering Ganelon under 
Edward Bond's memories in the Earth World, 
she had given me the means to vanquish him 
now! He was mine, to finish when I chose, 
and the Dark World was mine, and Edward 
Bond' kingdom of free people was mine too, 
and Edward Bond's lovely pale-haired bride, 
and everything that might have been his 
own. 

I laughed exultantly, and twisted in three 
perfectly timed motions that blocked and 
overbalanced the man who was myself. Thrae 
motions only — and then I had him across my 
knee, taut-stretched, his spine pressing hard 
against my thigh. 

I grinned down at him. My blood dripped 
into his face. I saw it strike there, and I met 
his eyes, and then strangely, for one flashing 
instant, I knew a fierce yearning for 
dfeat. In that instant, I prayed voicelessly 
to a nameless god that Edward Bond 
might yet save himself, and Ganelon might 
die. . . . 

I called forth all the strength that was in 
me, and Umbo swam redly before my eyes 
and the pain of my broken rib was a lance 
of white light as I drew the deep breath that 
was Edward Bond's last 

I broke his back across my knee. 



STORIES 



CHAPTER XVII 
Freedom at Last! 



■ WURRIEDLY two cold, smooth hands 
MB. pressed hard upon my forehead. I 
looked up. They slid lower, covering my 
eyes. And weakness was like a blanket over 
me. I knelt there, unresisting, feeling the 
body of the man who had been myself slide 
limply from my knee. 

Freydis pressed me down. We lay side by 
side, the living and the dead. 

The silver rods of the sorceress touched 
my head, and made a bridge between Ed- 
ward Bond and Ganelon. I remembered 
Medea's wand that could draw the life-force 
from the mind. A dull, numbing paralysis 
had me. Little tingling shocks rippled 
through my nerves, and I could not move. 

Sudden agonizing pain shot through me. 
My back! I tried to scream with the white 
fury of that wrenching agony, but my throat 
was frozen. I felt Edward Bond's wounds! 

In that nightmare moment, while my brain 
spun down the limitless corridors of a science 
beyond that of mankind, I knew what Frey- 
dis had done — what she was doing. 

I felt the mind of Edward Bond come 
back from the gulfs. Side by side we lay 
in flesh, and side by side in spirit as well. 

There was blackness, and two flames, burn- 
ing with a cold, clear fire. . . . 

One was the mind — the life — of Edward 
Bond. One was my life! 

The flames bent toward each other! 

They mingled and were one! 

Life and soul and mind of Edward Bond 
merged with life of Ganelon! 

Where two flames had burned, there was 
one now. One only. 

And the identity of Ganelon ebbed, sank 
. . . faded into a graying shadow as the fires 
of Edward Bond's life leaped ever higher! 

We were one. We were — 

Edward Bond! No longer Ganelon! No 
longer Lord of the Dark World. Master of 
the Caers! 

Magic of Freydis drowned the soul of 
Ganelon and gave his body to the life of Ed- 
ward Bond! 

I saw Ganelon — die.' . . . 



When I opened my eyes again, I knelt up- 
on the altar that had been Llyr's. The empty 



THE DAI 

vaults towered hollowly above us. Limbo 
was gone. The body across my knee was 
gone. Freydis smiled down at me with her 
ageless, timeless smile. 

"Welcome back to the Dark World, Ed- 
ward Bond." 

Yes, it was true. I knew that. I knew my 
own identity, housed though it was in anoth- 
er man's body. Dizzily I blinked, shook my 
head, and rose slowly. Pain struck savagely 
at my side, and I gasped and let Freydis 
spring forward to support me on one great 
white arm, while the hollow building reeled 
about me. But Ganelon was gone. He had 
vanished with limbo, vanished like a scatter 
of smoke, vanished as if the prayer he 
breathed in his extremity had been answered 
by the nameless god he prayed to. 

I was Edward Bond again. 

"Do you know why Ganelon could break 
you, Edward Bond?" Freydis said softly. 
"Do you know why you could not vanquish 
him? It was not what he thought. I know 
he believed he read your mind because he 
had dwelt there, but that was not the reason. 
When a man fights himself, my son, the same 
man does not fight to win. Only the suicide 
hates himself. Deep within Ganelon lay the 
knowledge of his own evil, and the hatred 
of it. So he could strike his own image and 
exult in the blow, because he hated himself 
in the depths of his own mind. 

"But you had earned your own respect. 
You could not strike as hard as he because 
you are not evil. And Ganelon won— and 
lost. In the end, he did not fight me. He had 



K WORLD 61 

slain himself, and the man who does that 
has no combat left in him." 

Her voice sank to a murmur. Then she 
laughed. 

"Go out now, Edward Bond. There is 
much to be done in the Dark World!" 

So, leaning upon her arm, I went down 
the long steps that Ganelon had climbed. I 
saw the green glimmer of the day outside, the 
shimmer of leaves, the motion of waiting 
people. I remembered all that Ganelon had 
remembered, but upon the mind of Ganelon 
the mind of Edward Bond was forever super- 
imposed, and I knew that only thus could the 
Dark World be ruled, 

The two together, twinned forever in one 
body, and the control forever mine — Edward 
Bond's. 

We came out under the emptied arch of 
the opening, and daylight was blinding for 
a moment after that haunted darkness. Then 
I saw the foresters anxiously clustering in 
their battered ranks around the Caer, and I 
saw a pale girl in green, haloed by her 
floating hair, turn a face of incredulous radi- 
ance to mine. 

I forgot the pain in ray side. 

Aries' hair swam like mist about us both 
as my arms closed around her. The roar of 
exultation that went up from the forest 
people swept the clearing and made the 
great Caer behind us echo through all its 
hollow vaults. 

The Dark World was free, and ours. 

But, Medea, Medea, red witch of Colchis, 
how we might have reigned together! 



NEXT ISSUE'S NOVEL 

THE SOLAR INVASION 

Featuring Curt Newton and the Futuremen 

By MANLY WADE WELLMAN 



The Nan With X-Ray Eyes 

By IE »<OM HAMILTON 

Endowed with super-vision, reporter David Winn leains 
the awesome and terrifying secrei of seeing too much! 




si 



kR. JACKSON H0- 
1 MER, tall and thin 
and gray, listened in half- 
fascinated doubt to his 
caller's rush of words. 
They swept on, quick, 
eager, convincing. He was 
young, this dark-haired, 
vivid- faced fellow who 
had given his name as 
David Winn. His argu- 
ments rang with the confidence of youth as 
yet unacquainted with defeat. 

Winn gesticulated, motioned colorfully to 
drive home his arguments. His clear voice 
echoed from the walls of Dr. Homer's long 
laboratory, set delicate brass and nickel in- 
struments on the shelves and vessels of shim- 
mering glass on the tables to quivering, drift- 
ed out of the open window to be lost in the 
morning confusion of a sunny crosstown 
street of New York. 

"You can't refuse!" Winn asserted. "It 
means a human being to test your process on, 
and you admit that you want to try it on a 
human." 

"I would like to very much, yes," Dr. Ho- 
mer sighed. "It would complete my investi- 
gation. But I had not thought of being able 
to do so until you volunteered — the risks — " 

"What risks?" challenged young David 
Winn. "You've done the thing to a dozen ani- 
mals from dog to monkey, haven't you, with- 
out changing anything in them except their 
eyesight?" 

"The eyesight alteration is change enough," 
Dr. Homer said. "You say that you are a 
newspaper reporter and not a scientist. Do 
you realize exactly what my process in- 
volves?" 

"Of course I do," David Winn answered. 
"I read the newspaper accounts of it thor- 
oughly, from the first mention of your work 
that appeared three months ago. 

"That first article said that you, Dr. Homer, 
the eminent biologist of Manhattan Founda- 



tion, believed that you could change the eyes 
of animals so that they could see through 
stone and metal and such substances as easily 
as through glass. 

"You proposed to do this by making the 
retinas of those animals' eyes sensitive to cer- 
tain ultra-violet vibrations instead of light- 
vibrations. They would see by these ultra- 
violet radiations instead of by light, and since 
all inorganic matter is transparent to these 
particular vibrations, so would it be trans- 
parent to their eyes." 

Dr. Homer nodded. 

"Yes, that was a fairly correct statement 
of my purpose in undertaking this series of 
experiments. I was sure I could make animal 
eyes capable of seeing through solid matter." 

Winn leaned forward. 

"Then, two weeks ago, the papers said that 
you had succeeded. You had so changed the 
sensitivity of the eyes of several animals that 
they saw by the ultra-violet waves and could 
look straight through stone or metal or any 
inorganic substance. They could not see 
through living things or matter derived from 
living things, as these particular vibrations 
would not penetrate organic matter. 



EDITOR'S NOTE 




t forgotten 
m as 'he. 
s stand the 



" almost ; 
are printed. Others 
test of time. 

Because "The Man With 
X-Ra* Eye;," by Edmond 
Hamilton, has stood this test, 
it has been nominated for 
SCIENTIFICTION'S HALL Of 
FAME and is reprinted here. 
In each issue we will honor one of the most outstand- 
ing fantasy classics of all time as selected by our readers. 

We hope in this way to bring a new permanence to 
the science fiction gems of yesterday and to perform 
a reat service to the science fiction devotees of today 
and tomorrow. 

Nominate your own favorites! Send a letter or post- 
card to The Editor. STARTLING STORIES, 10 East 40th 
St., New York 16, N. Y. Alt suggestions are mere Hun 
welcome! 



"That article added that you were of the 
opinion that you could change human eyes 
in just the same way by altering the retina's 
sensitivity, and that a man whose eyes were 
so treated could see through stone and brick 
walls, through metal of any kind, in fact, 
could see through almost everything except 
living beings and such part of their clothing 
and possessions as were of organic matter." 

David Winn's face lit. 

"That's why I came here to volunteer as a 
test-subject for your process! I want you to 
change my eyes so that I too will be able to 
look through solid matter as though it didn't 
exist!" 

"But why?" Dr. Homer asked him keenly. 



"Just why do you want this power of looking 
through doors and walls at will?" 

"Not for criminal purposes, if that is what 
you are thinking of," Winn told him. 

"Yes, that is what was in my mind," Dr. 
Homer admitted. "I can take no chance of 
turning loose on this city a criminal who is 
able to see through its walls as though they 
were glass." 

"I can satisfy you that I've no criminal 
ideas," David Winn assured him. "I told you 
I was a newspaper reporter. I'm a young one, 
an inexperienced one. But once I had this 
power, I would be the greatest reporter 
who ever lived! 

"Do you see what I mean? If I can look 



61 



STARTLING STORIES 



through walls and see what people are doing 
behind closed doors, I can get stories no other 
reporter can get. I can even see what people 
are saying behind closed doors — I've prac- 
ticed lip-reading during the last few weeks 
in anticipation." 

Li young man's face gleamed, enthusi- 
asm in his eyes as he bent forward. Dr. 
Homer considered him. 

"So that is it — you want my process to 
make you the reporter who sees everything?" 

"That's what I want, to see everything!" 
Winn declared. "Why, within weeks this 
power of mine would bring me a better job 
and a bigger salary than any other reporter 
in the country!" 

"You wish me to change your eyesight be- 
cause it will bring you a larger salary?" the 
scientist asked. "You must want that in- 
creased salary very badly." 
David Winn smiled. 

"I do, and the reason is the usual one — a 
girL Marta Ray and I are very much in love 
with each other, but a cub's salary wouldn't 
be much when we're married. But on the 
salary I'll make when I start seeing through 
doors and walls — " 

"And you're willing to undergo this change 
of eyesight to get that" Dr. Homer comment- 
ed. "You understand, once your eyes were 
changed in this way the process could not be 
undone?" 

"Why should anyone want it undone?" 
Winn countered. "If I can just get that pow- 
er, I'll be satisfied to keep it and to use it." 

Dr. Homer thought in silence for a time. 
His brows knit. He looked out through the 
window at the noisy morning traffic in the 
street below. From the window, his gaze 
went to a long white table over whose end 
was suspended an upright mechanism of 
brass and steel and quartz. 

The scientist walked over to the instru- 
ment, fingered its connections. David Winn 
watched him intently. Dr. Homer suddenly 
turned. 

"I am going to use the process on your 
eyes, Winn," he said. "But there are condi- 
tions." 

He raised a rigid finger. 

"First, if the process does succeed with 
your eyes, you are to tell absolutely no one 
of your power." 

"I agree to that," Winn said quickly and 
decisively. 

"Second, you will promise never to use 



that power for criminal or vindictive pur- 
poses." 

"I do promise," David Winn told him. "And 
now? You'll do the thing at once?" 

"I might as well," said the scientist. He 
seemed torn by doubts. "I don't know — I may 
be doing wrong in this, but I've got to see if 
the human retina reacts like the others. 

"Yes, I'll do it at once," he went on. "The 
process will take less than two hours — of 
course you'll have to be anaesthetized during 
it" 

Under his direction, David Winn removed 
coat and vest and climbed up onto the white 
table and stretched out. 

Dr. Homer swung the suspended instru- 
ment over him, carefully adjusted its tubes 
until twin quartz lenses were directly over 
the eyes of the prostrate young man. He then 
placed ready on a smaller table, glass con- 
tainers of pink and green solutions, instru- 
ments, and droppers. 

He swung the tube of an anaesthetic-gas 
apparatus toward Winn's face, then held its 
rubber nose-piece in his hand. 

"All ready?" he said. 

"All ready." David Winn smiled. "If all 
goes well I'll be seeing you — and much else 
— in two hours." 

Dr. Homer nodded. 

"I£ all goes well," he repeated. "Here goes." 

The gas-apparatus hissed. . . . 

David Winn opened his eyes and looked up 
from the table on which he lay. He saw the 
anxious face of Dr. Homer bending over 
him. There seemed a faint violet tinge in the 
light, but David Winn could see no other 
change. Had the process failed? 

Then as he looked up past Dr. Homer's 
face, he gasped. He was looking up through 
the ceiling of the laboratory as though no 
ceiling was there! He was looking up at the 
bottom of a table, several chairs, and two 
white-coated scientists busy with flames and 
tubes, all seemingly suspended miraculously 
in the air a dozen feet above him. 

And above these, in turn, David Winn 
could see other objects and other men sus- 
pended in the same way. Level above level 
he could see as clearly as though the ceilings 
and floors dividing them did not exist, far up 
through the great building's many levels to 
the open air. 

Then the explanation came in full force to 
David Winn's half-dazed mind. He struggled 
up to a sitting position. 

"You did it, then!" he exclaimed. "The 



THE MAN Wn 

process succeeded!" 

"Did it?" Dr. Homer asked him keenly. 
"Has your vision changed any?" 

"Changed?" Winn drew a long breath. "I'll 
say that it's changed. Why, I can see through 
the ceilings above and the walls and even 
this table I'm sitting on, as though they didn't 
exist!" 

¥T was true. To David Winn's eyes, the 
m walls, floors and ceilings of the building 
had vanished. He could see up through level 
above level into the open air. In each level 
he saw only the human beings, their clothing, 
wooden doors and tables; only organic mat- 
ter. 

He could look down through similar levels 
to the surface of the ground below. It oc- 
curred to him that he saw the ground only 
because it was so intermixed with organic 
matter in its upper layer. 

Dr. Homer helped him to clamber down 
from the metal table. Winn seemed to him- 
self to be standing on empty space, the tile 
floor invisible to his sight It was an eerie 
sensation. 

He took a few steps tentatively across the 
room and blundered into something invisible 
that upset with a crash. 

Winn made a wry face. 

"I'll have to look out for metal furniture, 
won't I? But it's wonderful — wonderful — " 

Dr. Homer's face held excitement. 

"You can see only organic matter, then, 
the same as my animal subjects?" 

"Just the same," said David Winn. Elation 
was beginning to replace his bewilderment. 
"Think of it, I'm looking straight through the 
walls! The reporter who can see through 
walls!" 

"You've no regrets, then, that you under- 
went the process?" the scientist asked, and 
Winn laughed. 

"Regrets? I wish that I'd been born this 
way. I'm going to see the world as it really is 
from now on, and not just the walls behind 
which it hides!" 

He put on his hat and maneuvered to the 
door. Dr. Homer helping him. He grasped 
the invisible door-knob. v 

"I'll be back tomorrow to make whatever 
scientific tests you want, doctor. Just now 
I'm eager to make use of my power." 

"Be careful," Dr. Homer warned. "Take it 
easy until you learn how to navigate." 

David Winn closed the door, walked down 
a hall and invisible stairs carefully, and 



I X-RAY EYES 65 

emerged into the street. 

Crowded New York was an astounding 
spectacle to his eyes now that he saw only the 
living and organic matter in it 

The great buildings of stone and steel had 
largely vanished to his sight, and he now saw 
only the level above level of working people 
and miscellaneous organic objects they con- 
tained. 

He could see none of the automobiles and 
buses thronging the street before him. His 
eyes beheld only groups of people in sitting 
posture rushing to and fro suspended in the 
air. 

He set off for his newspaper- office. It was 
but two blocks away, but before he reached 
it, David Winn had almost been run down at 
intersections by two tax scabs invisible to his 
eyes; had been roundly cursed by a man 
pushing a metal hand-truck along the side- 
walk which he had run into; and had tripped 
twice over objects he could not see. 

When he got into the city-room of his pa- 
per, it presented as weird an appearance as 
the street. Men sat at desks invisible to his 
eyes, using invisible telephones and type- 
writers. Winn threaded cautiously through 
them to the city editor's desk. 

The editor, Ray Lanham, looked up as he 
approached and tossed a scrap of paper 
toward him. 

"Where have you been all morning, Winn?" 
he asked. "Here's a fist of some of the most 
prominent men in the city. I want you to get 
as many of them as you can to state their 
opinion on the latest disclosures of civic 
graft." 

"This assignment ought to be easy enough 
for you," Lanham added. "Phone in what 
you get in time for the rewrite." 

David Winn smiled as he pocketed the slip 
of paper. 

"Don't hunt easy assignments for me, for 
from now on I'm the best reporter you've 
got," he said. "In one week all the news- 
papers in this town will be begging me to 
work for them. . . ." 

Grinning to himself at the editor's dumb- 
founded face, he walked out of the office and 
reached the street. 

When he saw a taxi-driver sailing along 
amid the weird throng of rushing figures in 
the street, David Winn hailed him and en- 
tered the cab he could not see. He sped down- 
town in eerie progress. 

The first name on his list was that of Roscoe 
Saulton, candidate for governor. Winn left 



66 STARTUP" 

the cab at the Saulton Campaign Headquar- 
ters, and found his way up through the in- 
visible walls and stairs and floors to the suite 
of offices he wished to reach. 

He found two other newspapermen waiting 
to see Roscoe Saulton on the same matter, 
and Saulton was just appearing from the in- 
ner offices. His big, good-humored face was 
wreathed in a welcoming smile. 

His face sobered as David Winn put his 
question. It became almost stern. 

"I have only the strongest condemnation 
for all forms of civic graft," he declared. 
"This rottenness that has been uncovered in 
our body politic must be destroyed!" 

"Can we quote you as saying that if elected 
you will do all in your power to cleanse mu- 
nicipal politics?" one of the reporters asked. 

Saulton nodded vigorously. 

"You may, and I hope that you make it em- 
phatic. I am seeking the office of governor 
only that I may serve the people, and I know 
no better way to serve them than to smash 
this political ring of chicanery and fraud that 
has long disgraced this city." 

He shook hands heartily with them. 

"Good day, gentlemen — and remember that 
I am always glad to see you." 

AS Roscoe Saulton returned to the inner 
offices and the other two newspaper- 
men went out, David Winn lingered. 

He could look through the walls into the 
inner office to which Saulton had gone, and 
could see Saulton and the half-dozen other 
cigar-smoking men in that office as clearly 
as though the intervening walls did not exist. 

Winn could see the movement of their hps 
and read from it what they were saying. 
Saulton had sunk into a chair and was speak- 
ing to one of the others. 

"More damn reporters to get my opinion on 
graft," he was saying. "They've kept me busy 
damning the organization up and down all 
morning." 

The other men grinned. 
"Don't damn it too hard when you're rely- 
ing on it to put you into office next month, 
Saulton," one of them said. 
Another contradicted. 
"Go as far as you like with your denuncia- 
tions," he advised the candidate. "It doesn't 
hurt the organization a bit and it will get you 
votes." 

"Well, once I'm in the governor's chair, 
I'l give short shrift to these pussyfooting re- 
formers," Roscoe Saulton growled, "but right 



i STORIES 

now I've got to coddle them along, worse 
luck." 

David Winn's absorbed watch was inter- 
rupted by a secretary who came up to him 
in the outer office. 

"Is anything the matter?" the man asked. 
"You've been staring at the wail for min- 
utes." 

Winn turned. "Oh, just a little absent- 
minded, I guess. Good day." 

Winn walked out of the building to the 
street. He felt disgusted to the core of his 
being. 

So this was Roscoe Saulton, the guberna- 
torial candidate whose integrity was unques- 
tioned! A pseudo -reformer who denounced 
political graft even while he used it to reach 
office. 

Others, everyone, might be taken in, but 
the truth could not be hidden from the eyes 
of David Winn. He had looked through the 
walls behind which Saulton thought himself 
secure, had seen the real Roscoe Saulton. 

He looked at the next name on his list. It 
was that of James Willingdon, financier and 
mining-magnate and philanthropist whose 
eminence was known over the whole nation. 
Winn got another cab to take him to Willing- 
don and Company's Wall Street offices. 

He was passed through a half-dozen secre- 
taries and underlings until he at last reached 
the office of James Willingdon's personal sec- 
retary and explained his errand. The secre- 
tary was beautifully courteous. 

"Mr. Willingdon is engaged in an impor- 
tant business conference, but I will see 
whether he can see you for a moment. Will 
you please wait here?" 

David Winn looked after the secretary as 
he went through an invisible wall into the 
next office. There were a dozen men in that 
room, gathered round a long table. Winn saw 
them as clearly as though there were no wall 
separating them. 

He saw James Willingdon himself at the 
head of the table, a man of fifty with a gray 
face, steely gray eyes, and a straight erect 
figure. Willingdon was speaking to the others 
at the table. 

Winn could read the movement of his lips 
as clearly as though he were hearing the 
words issuing from them. 

"I tell you, it's the best proposition any of 
us have ever had," James Willingdon was 
saying. "We announce United Mines, and 
with our names and the publicity we'll give 
it, the public will fall over itself to buy the 



THE MAN WT1 

stock. When it's gone high enough we'll un- 
load without warning." 

"What if the public learns what has hap- 
pened afterward?" a tall, anxious-looking 
man queried. "We wouldn't be very popular, 
1 can assure you." 

"There's no chance they'll even suspect. 
We'll simply assert that bear raiders broke 
the stock's value and that we lost more than 
anyone else!" James Willingdon answered. 
"They'll never question it any more than they 
ever have before." 

"Very well, we're with you, Willingdon," 
another said. "But remember, no double- 
crossing — we sell at the same time." 

The personal secretary who had been hov- 
ering close by came quickly forward and 
spoke to the financier. 

David Winn saw Willingdon excuse him- 
self to the others and come into the room 
where he waited. 

James Willingdon's face wore a smile of 
perfect-seeming sincerity as he shook Winn's 
hand. 

"I can spare you only a moment, Mr. 
Winn," he said, "for some of my associates 
and I are busy planning a project that will 
mean great things for this country — yes, 
great things. 

"But my secretary said that you wanted 
my opinion of the recent graft-disclosures, 
and my duty as a citizen comes before all 
else. As a citizen of this municipality, I want 
to put on record my utter detestation of all 
such wrong-doing as has just been disclosed." 

David Winn went out of the place with a 
bitter smile. So James Willingdon, great 
financier and revered philanthropist, was — 
just a crook. Just another like Roscoe Saul- 
ton. 

WT came to Winn as he emerged into the 
M. street that his new eyesight gave him 
more than the power to look through walls 
— it gave with it the power to look through 
the falsities of ordinary existence into the 
true hearts of men. 

Ten minutes later, David Winn was putting 
his question to the third man on his list, one 
of the overlords of the clothing industry. 

The clothing-magnate spoke eloquently 
against civic corruption. He dwelt on the 
horror of defrauding poor as well as rich. He 
mentioned Lincoln and Washington. But 
David Winn was not listening. 

The offices of this man were on the ground 
flour of the great block of buildings that 



H X-RAY EYES 67 

housed his shops. Winn looked through the 
offices' walls as though they did not exist, 
was staring into those far -stretching factory- 
divisions. 

He saw the long rows of pinched-looking, 
pale-faced girls and women bent over ma- 
chines, working like so many automatons 
without looking up. He saw panting youths 
struggling with hand-trucks of clothing and 
fabrics and furs through ill-lit, ill-ventilated 
corridors and rooms. 

Winn avoided shaking hands with the de- 
nouncer of graft and escaped into the street. 
He felt a revulsion. 

He walked along the street, forgetting his 
further names for the time, and found himself 
passing a curious structure. 

Its walls were transparent to his eyes like 
those of all the other buildings in sight, of 
course. But its interior seemed divided into 
a great number of very small rooms. 

There were men crowded in nearly all the 
rooms, as far back into the structure as he 
saw. Some of the men lay in stupefied sleep. 
Others gazed longingly into the streets. 

It was a prison. Winn saw the guards in the 
corridors between the cells, the debased char- 
acter of many of the occupants, the uncon- 
querable dirtiness, aa clearly as though there 
were no walls and bars between. 

He had many times passed the stately gray 
stone building before, but never until now 
had he seen through the stone front to the 
foulness and misery within. He passed hur- 
riedly on. 

But the next building was worse. It was a 
large hospital. He had passed this, too, many 
times in the past, and had admired the neat- 
ness of the big brick building with its gleam- 
ing sun-rooms and other rooms showing their 
expanse of shining glass window. 

But now David Winn's eyes saw nothing of 
the neat brick walls, the glistening glass. He 
looked through brick and plaster and metal 
to the building's interior. He saw long rows 
of mattresses, resting on beds he could not 
see; hundreds of them. 

Men and women were stretched upon Then), 
and children too. Some were tossing fever- 
ishly in the grip of dread diseases. Others 
shrieked in the agony of pain. He could see 
men whose limbs were but bandaged stumps, 
could see children lying supine in casts. 

He gazed up through the level on level of 
rows of beds and sufferers to the operating- 
rooms, glimpsed the flash of steel instruments 
suddenly reddened. He saw the sheet being 



68 STARTUP 

drawn over the faces of suddenly quiet fig- 
ures, beheld new sufferers being brought has- 
tily in from the ambulances at the rear. Sick 
and shaken, David Winn stumbled on. 

He passed quickly the adjoining insanity- 
hospital, turning his head away from the 
building thr ough whose transparent walls he 
could see men and women tearing at the bars 
of their cells and at themselves, or sitting 
and staring droolingly into nothingness. He 
kept his eyes averted until he had turned the 
corner. 

The grotesque spectacle of the city hummed 
and swarmed in the warm afternoon sunlight 
as he went down this street. He hardly knew 
now where he was going, hardly was aware 
of the weirdness of the spectacle that the 
street presented to his eyes. In his soul, a 
horror was expanding that he could not con- 
quer. 

Now it was a section of the slum-district 
through which he was passing. But he did 
not see it as it appeared to the eyes of others 
in the street, a narrow thoroughfare lined 
with dingy brick-fronted tenements and 
noisy with children playing on the worn cob- 
bles. He was seeing what lay behind the din- 
gy building-fronts. 

David Winn's eyes beheld an unimagined 
dirtiness and squalor through the walls that 
were transparent to them. He saw large fam- 
ilies crowded into a single room, with shabby 
mattresses piled in a corner showing on what 
they slept at night. He saw scavenging chil- 
dren returning triumphantly home with re- 
volting food. 

In those rabbit-warrens of filth and dark- 
ness, his super-penetrating vision descried 
every species of crime, breeding and taking 
place. Men and women sodden with poison- 
ous liquor, he saw, and others pale and flac- 
cid from the drugs they took as he watched. 
Children were deftly instructed in crime in 
places whose walls could not bar the gaze of 
David Winn. 

Winn tried to tell himself that all this had 
always been, that it was only because he now 
saw it all that he was so shaken with horror, 
but it was unavailing. Wherever his steps 
took him, wherever his eyes turned, he looked 
through walls into some new nest of pain or 
foulness or crime hidden from the light of 
day. 

He was sick, sick unto his soul. Why, he 
cried to himself, had he ever been so mad as 
to let his eyes be changed? Why had he not 
realized what it would mean? All the wretch- 



G STORIES 

edness and wrong-doing and horror of life 
that was hidden from other men by walls 
would always be staring him in the face. He 
would see them always with eyes that pene- 
trated all concealment. 

If his eyes could be changed back to their 
former state, if the process could be undone — 
but no, it could never be undone. Dr. Homer 
had warned of that. He would always be like 
this, always descrying through any conceal- 
ment the horror hidden from all others. 

BUT if he could get away, with Marta! 
David Winn's heart leapt to catch at 
the sudden gleam of hope. In the country 
there would be fewer walls, less hidden 
things. They could be married and go there 
to live, just he and Marta together, Marta 
loved him and would understand — 

He would go to her, explain to her. Fever- 
ishly, David Winn walked northward until 
he came to the apartment-building he sought. 
He raced up the invisible stairs and along the 
hall. His hand was raised to knock on Marta 
Ray's door, but he paused as he looked 
through the transparent wall and saw Marta 
and her mother. 

They were talking, and their faces were 
turned half toward him. David Winn read 
their lips as clearly as though he heard their 
speech. 

"He said that if his plans worked out we 
could be married quite soon," Marta was say- 
ing. 

The mother sniffed. 

"Why you have anything to do with him, 
I don't know. David Winn has nothing and 
never will have anything." 

"Oh, don't start that again, Mother," Marta 
Ray said wearily. "I know David doesn't 
amount to much." 

"Then why are you going to marry him?" 
her mother demanded. 

"Because David is the best I can get. I have 
to marry someone, don't I?" said the girl dis- 
contentedly. 

David Winn stood quite motionless outside 
the door for some moments. Then he turned, 
and with his face white and strange, went 
softly down the stairs. . , . 

The police sergeant that night was explain- 
ing to Dr. Homer as he led him back along a 
corridor to the morgue-room. 

"We found your name and address in his 
pocket when we fished his body out of the 
river, and thought maybe you could identify 
him," he was saying. 



THE MAN WW 

Dr. Homer stepped into the morgue-room, 
and as the sheet was thrown back he looked 
steadily at the drowned man. 

He lay with body tensed, and with one 
hand flung palm-outward against his face, 
across his eyes. 

"Funny thing about that arm," the sergeant 
remarked. "When we found him, his hand 
was up in front of his eyes like that and we 
couldn't move it away. 



[ X-RAY EYES 69 

"Looks just like he was trying to keep from 
seeing something, doesn't it?" 

Dr. Homer nodded sadly as he looked at 
David Winn. 

"He was trying to keep from seeing every- 
thing. For he saw everything just as he want- 
ed to, and it was too much for him. 

"God keep us blind in this world! Prevent 
us from the horror of doing what he did, of 
seeing too well." 



Next Issue's Hall of Fame Story: AFTER ARMAGEDDON, by Francis Flagg 



The I alt black body crumbled as the needle-beam spokf 



PLANET OF THE BLACK DUST 

By JACK VANCE 

The pizates held all the cards but one — the sottl of 
a man who was determined not to let them win! 



ABOUT the middle of the dog watch 
Captain Creed came up on the bridge 
of the space-freighter Perseus. He 
walked to the forward port and stood gazing 
at the blood-red star which lay ahead and 
slightly to the left. 

It was a nameless little sun in the tail of 
the Serpens group, isolated from the usual 
space routes. The Earth-Rasa lague route 
ran far to one side, the Delta Aquila ran far 
to the other and the Delta Aquila-Sabik 
inter-sector service was yet a half light-year 
further out. 



Captain Creed stood watching the small 
red star, deep in thought — a large man, with 
a paunch, a bland white face, a careful coal- 
black beard. His heavy black eyes, under- 
hung with dark circles, were without expres- 
sion or life. He wore a neat black suit, his 
boots shone with a high polish, his hands 
were white and immaculately kept. 

Captain Creed was more than mere master 
of the Perseus. In partnership with his 
brother he owned the European- Arcturus 
Line — a syndicate impressive to the ear. 

The home office, however, was one dingy 



PLANET OF THE BLACK DUST 



71 



room in the old Co-Martian Tower in Tran, 
and the firm's sole assets consisted, first, of 
the Perseus itself, and second, of the profit 
anticipated from a cargo of aromatic oils 
which Captain Creed had taken on consign- 
ment from McVann's Star in Ophiuchus. 

The Perseus could not be considered the 
more valuable of the two items. It was an 
old ship, slow, pitted by meteorites, of little 
more than 600 tons capacity. 

The cargo was another matter — flask upon 
flask of rare aromatics, essence of syrang 
blooms, oil of star-poppies, attar of green 
orchids, musk of crushed mian flies, distilla- 
tion of McVann's blue bush — exotic liquids 
brought in by the bulb-men of McVann's 
Star a half ounce at a time. And Captain 
Creed was highly annoyed when the insur- 
ance evaluator permitted but an eighty- 
million -dollar policy and had argued ve- 
hemently to have the figure moved closer 
to the cargo's true value. 

Now, as he stood on the bridge smoking 
his cigar, he was joined by the first mate, 
Blaine, who was tall and thin and, except 
for a scrub of black hair, egg-bald. Blaine 
had a long knife-nose, a mouth twisted to a 
perpetual snarl. He had a quick reckless way 
of talking that sometimes disconcerted care- 
ful Captain Creed. 

"They're all fixed," he announced, "They'll 
go in about ten minutes — " Captain Creed 
quelled him with a frown and a quick mo- 
tion of the head, and Blaine saw that they 
were not alone. Holderlin, second mate and 
quartermaster, a young man of hard face 
and cruel blue eyes, stood forward at the 
helm. 

He wore only loose tattered trousers, and 
the scarlet glare from the star ahead gave a 
devilish red glow to his body, put a lurid cast 
on his face. Like two hawks they watched 
him, and his expression did not entirely re- 
assure them. After a moment Captain Creed 
spoke smoothly. 

"I doubt if you are right, Mr. Blaine. The 
period of that type of variable star is slower 
and more even, as I think you'll find if you 
check your observations." 

Blaine shot another quick look at Holder- 
lin, then, mumbling indistinguishably, left 
for the engine room. 

Creed presently stepped across the bridge. 

"Take her five degrees closer to the star, 
Mr. Holderlin. We're somewhat offcourse. 
and the gravity will swing us back around." 

Holderlin gave him one look of surprise, 
then silently obeyed. What nonsense was 
this? Already the ship was gripped hard by 
gravity. Did they still hope to beguile him 
with such slim pretexts? If so they must 
think him stupid indeed. 

Even a child would by now have been 
warned by the happenings aboard the 



Perseus. First at Porphyry, the space-port 
on McVann's Star, Captain Creed had dis- 
charged the radioman and the two ship's 
mechanics for reasons unexplained. 

Not an unusual circumstance, but Captain 
Creed had neglected to hire replacements. 
Thus, the only other man aboard beside 
Captain Creed. Blaine and Holderlin, was 
Farjoram, the half-mad CalHstonian cook. 

A9t N SEVERAL occasions, after Porphyry 
v had been cleared, Holderlin had sur- 
prised Blaine and Creed intent at the radio. 
Later, when he inspected the automatic 
frequency record, he found no trace of calls. 

And four or five days ago, while on 
watch below and supposedly asleep, he had 
noticed while leaving his tiny compartment 
that the entrance port to the starboard life- 
boat was ajar. He had said nothing, but 
later, when Blaine and Captain Creed were 
both asleep, had inspected the life-boats, 
port and starboard, to find that the fuel in 
the starboard life-boat had been drained ex- 
cept for the slightest trickle and that the 
radio transmitter had been tampered with. 

The port boat was well fueled and pro- 
visioned. So Holderlin quietly refueled the 
starboard boat and thoughtfully stowed away 
spare fuel. 

Now came Blaine's unwary statement to 
Captain Creed, and Creed's peculiar orders 
to steer toward the star. Holderlin's tough 
brown face was unexpressive as he watched 
Creed's great bulk by the port, blotting owt 
the sun ahead. 

But his brain searched through all angles 
of the situation. For fourteen years of his 
thirty-three he had roved space and of ne- 
cessity had learned how to eare for Robert 
Holderlin. 

A slight shock shook the hull. Captain 
Creed turned his head negligently, then once 
again looked out on space. Holderlin said 
nothing, but his eyes were very alert. 

A few minutes passed, and Blaine came 
back to the bridge. Holderlin sensed, but 
did not see the look which passed between 
Creed and the gaunt mate. 

"Ah," said Captain Creed, "We seem to 
be close enough. Starboard ten degrees and 
set her on the gyroscope." 

Holderlin turned the wheel. He could feel 
the surge of power into the jets, but the ship 
did not respond. 

"She doesn't answer, sir," he said. 

"What's this!" cried Captain Creed. "Mr. 
Blaine! Check the steering jets! The ship 
does not answer the wheel!" 

Creed must dislike too blunt action, 
thought Holderlin, to insist on such elaborate 
circumstances — or perhaps they suspected 
the gun in bis pocket. Blaine ran off, and 
returned in a very short time, a wolfish grin 



STARTLING STOIilES 



72 

lifting his already contorted lip. 

"Steering jets fused, Captain. That cheap 
lining they put in at Aureolis has given 
out." 

Captain Creed looked from the furious lit- 
tle sun ahead to Blaine and Holderlin. With 
his entire fortune at stake, he seemed 
strangely unperturbed by the prospect of 
disaster. But then Captain Creed's white 
face was always controlled. He gave the 
order that Holderlin had been expecting. 

"Abandon ship!" he said. "Mr. Blaine, 
despatch the distress signal! Mr. Holdei'lin, 
find Farjoram and stand by the starboard 
life-boat!" 

Holderlin left to find the cook. But he 
noted as he passed that Blaine, at the trans- 
mitter, had not yet flipped down the big red 
"Emergency" relay. 

Presently Captain Creed and Blaine joined 
Holderlin and the cook on the boat walk. 

"Shall I accompany your boat, Captain, or 
Mr. Blaine's?" asked Holderlin, as if he had 
not understood Captain Creed's previous 
order, or was challenging it. Blaine looked in 
sudden alarm at the captain. 

"You will take charge of the starboard 
boat, Mr. Holderlin," replied the Captain 
silkily. "I wish Mr. Blaine to accompany 
me." He turned to enter the pott boat. But 
Holderlin stepped forward and produced a 
sheet of paper he had been carrying for 
several days. 

"A moment, if you please, sir. If I am to 
be in charge of the boat, for the protection of 
myself and the cook — in the event your boat 
is lost — will you sign this certification of 
shipwreck?" 

"Neither boat will be lost, Mr. Holderlin," 
replied Captain Creed, smoothing his black 
beard. "Mr. Blaine contacted a patrol 
cruiser only a hundred million miles away." 

"Nevertheless, sir, I believe the Astro- 
nautic Code requires such a document." 

Blaine nudged the captain slyly. 

"Well certainly, Mr. Holderlin, we must 
observe the law," said Captain Creed, and 
so signed the certification. Without more 
ado, he and Blaine entered their lifeboat. 

"Take off, Mr. Holderlin!" Captain Creed 
ordered through the port. "We will wait till 
you clear." 

B I OLDERLIN turned. The cook had dis- 
appeared, 

"Farjoram!" he cried. Farjoram.'" 

Holderlin ran to find him and at last dis- 
covered the fuzzy-skinned little Callistonian 
huddled in his cabin, red eyes bulging in 
great terror. There was foam at his mouth. 

"Come," said Holderlin gruffly. 

The Callistonian babbled in frenzy. 

"No, no — I not go in life-boat. Get away, 
you go! I stay!" 



Then Holderlin remembered a tale which 
had gone the rounds of how this Farjoram 
and eight others had drifted in a life-boat 
for four months through the Phenesian 
Blackness. When at last they had been 
picked up, there was only Farjoram among 
the picked bones of his fellows. So now even 
Holderlin shuddered. 

"Hurry!" came Captain Creed's call. "We 
are almost into the sun!" 

"Come!" said Holderlin roughly. "They'll 
kill you if you don't." 

For answer the Callistonian whipped out a 
long knife and spasmodically stabbed himself 
in the throat. He fell at Holderlin's feet 
Holderlin returned alone. 

"Where's Farjoram?" queried Creed 
sharply. 

"He killed himself, sir. With a knife." 

"Humph," murmured Creed. "Well, take 
off alone then. The rendezvous is at a hun- 
dred million miles on the line between this 
star and Delta Aquila. 

"Right, sir," said Holderlin. Without furth- 
er words, he sealed himself in the boat and 
took off. 

The sun was close, but not too close. It 
would have pulled an unfueled life-boat to 
doom, but it was not so near as to prevent 
another ship from approaching the Perseus, 
shackling into the fore and aft chocks and 
towing it off to safety. 

Holderlin used his blasts for a few seconds, 
then cut them as if his fuel were exhausted. 
Presently as he drifted away from the 
Perseus, apparently helpless in the red star's 
gravity, he saw the port boat break clear 
and speed, not out toward Delta Aquila, but 
back along the blast-track. 

Holderlin drifted quietly a few minutes, 
in the event that Captain Creed or Blaine 
were watching him through glasses. But 
there was little time to waste. The ship lying 
astern would presently draw alongside and, 
after transferring the precious cargo, would 
let the Perseus hurtle into the scarlet sun. 

Holderlin had different plans. He assured 
himself that the certificate signed by Captain 
Creed was safe— then, judging the interval 
to be adequate, started his blasts and whisked 
himself back to the Perseus. 

He brought the bow of the lifeboat against 
the Perseus' forward tow ring, then slipped 
into his air-suit, clambered out into space 
and shackled the two together. Then, back 
in the life-boat, he eased open the throttle 
and nudged the bow of the Perseus to a safe 
position of space. 

He pushed himself across the emptiness, 
this time to the Perseus' entrance port and, 
shedding his space-suit, ran up to the bridge. 
He sent out a detector wave, and the almost 
instant contact bell told him the other ship 
stood close — too close for flight to the only 



PLANET OF THE BLACK DUST 



refuge he could think of — the lone planet of 
the red star. 

He picked up this ship in the teleview. It 
was a long black vessel with high-straked 
bow, great thick-ribbed tubes and a bridge 
built smooth into the hull. Holderlin instant- 
ly recognized the type — a class of fast 
heavily-armed ships designed for the Scorpio 
Sagittarius frontier run, built by the Belisar- 
ius Corporation of Earth. 

Two years before he had shipped aboard 
one of the same class, and he recollected an 
incident of the voyage. Out past Fomalhaut, 
they were engaged in a running battle with 
a war-sphere of the Clantlalan system, and 
there had been a lucky shot into the main 
generator which had put them out of action. 

Only the arrival of three Earth cruisers had 
staved off capture and slavery. Holderlin 
recollected the exact details of that lucky 
shot. The bolt had struck amidships, just 
forward of the lower drive- jet. It had broken 
into the hull through a small drain, the 
Achilles' heel of the heavy armor. 

So Holderlin watched and waited as the 
sleek black vessel cruised close. The lifeboat 
dangling against the Perseus' bow was turned 
partly away in the shadow, and was, he 
hoped, not too conspicuous. 

But the ship came easing up with an in- 
solent leisure, and there seemed to be no 
suspicions aboard. Holderlin's hard face 
creased in a grin as he sighted along the 
Perseus' ancient needle-beam. 

F H 1 HE encounter was of dream-like simplic- 
ity. Like a tremendous black shark, the 
ship drifted over him, her little black drain 
drawing the sights of his needle-beam like 
a magnet. 

He pulled the trigger and laughed aloud as 
a great hole opened where the drain had once 
been. As before, the lights died, the driving 
beams cut off, all evidence of life vanished, 
and the black ship rolled sluggishly in recoil 
from the blast, a great helpless hulk. 

Holderlin ran to the bank of jet controls. 
He could consider himself safe now, for at 
least a few hours, when, with luck, he would 
be so well concealed that the black ship 
could seek in vain. And if those aboard were 
not able to rig up an auxiliary generator 
quickly, they themselves might be forced to 
take to their life-boats — for the red star 
glowed close ahead. 

He threw on acceleration and, with the life- 
boat dragging crazily from the bow, blasted 
away toward the lone planet of the scarlet 
sun. 

An hour later the planet loomed large, 
and he entered the green-tinted atmosphere. 
In order to escape the teleview plates of 
the raider, he circled to the far side, nudging 
the Perseus' bow around with the lifeboats 



73 

Through his own teleview, the planet 
showed as a world of about half Earth's size, 
scarred with gorges and precipitous crags, 
interspersed with plains. These plains 
brimmed with a black froth, which the tele- 
view presently revealed to be thick, fronded, 
vegetation. 

Tlie atmosphere, of a marked green tint, 
supported great fleecy clouds, glowing in the 
lurid sunlight in all shades of orange, gold, 
red and yellow. 

Holderlin let the Perseus fall toward the 
base of a great black peak where dense for- 
ests indicated good concealment. Single- 
handed he landed the ship with its steering 
jets fused, an epic in itself. 

For two tense hours he crouched in the 
lifeboat, jockeying the nose of the Perseus 
back and forth as it settled on its landing 
blasts through the green murk past the hot- 
colored clouds. 

He had led two cords into the lifeboat with 
him — one made fast to the throttle that he 
might blast the ship to safety if the terrain 
were too soft or too rough, the other to kill 
the tubes when the ship finally settled 
solidly. 

The Perseus teetered low through the 
green air and crashed down through the 
black forests onto solid soil. Holderlin 
yanked his cut-off cord, and the roaring 
blasts died. He fell limply back in his bucket 
seat. 

He stirred himself. The green of the at- 
mosphere hinted unhealthiness — and once 
more climbing into his air-suit he returned 
to the Perseus. 

He twisted the dial at the radio. There was 
only silence. Through the skyport, he saw 
that the soft black fronds had closed over 
the ship. The Perseus was well concealed. 
Holderlin slept. 

When he awoke all was as before, the radio 
still silent. He tested the atmosphere with the 
Bramley Airolyzer, and as he suspected the 
dials showed poison. But apparently there 
were no tissue- irritant gasses, and there was 
a sufficiency of oxygen. 

So he charged a respirator with appropri- 
ate filters and jumped out on the planet to 
inspect the steering jets. He sank to his 
ankles in an impalpable black dust like soot, 
which every passing puff of air blew into 
whirls of black smoke. 

As he walked, he stirred up clouds of this 
dust, which settled in his clothes and into his 
boots. Holderlin cursed. He could see that a 
grimy period lay before him. He plodded 
around to the steering jets. 

They were both better and worse than he 
had expected. The linings were split and 
broken, and fragments had wedged across 
the throat of the tube. The electron filaments 
were destroyed, but the backplates of telex 



STARTLING STORIES 



74 

crystal were still whole. 

The tubes themselves were sound, neither 
belled, warped nor cracked, and apparently 
the field coils were not burnt out. Holderlin 
surmised that a small charge of vanzitrol 
had been exploded in each. 

He could not recall seeing any spare linings 
aboard, but to make sure he ransacked the 
ship — to no avail. However, the Naval Reg- 
ulation Lining Oven and a supply of flux 
was in its place as provided by Article 80 of 
the Astronautic Code, a law from the early 
days of space -Sight, when durable linings 
were unknown. 

Then every ship carried dozens of spares 
— yet often as not these would burn out or 
split in the heat and pressure, and the ship 
would be forced to land on a convenient 
planet and mold another supply. Now Hol- 
derlin's concern was to find a bed of clean 
clay. 

The ground at his feet was covered by the 
black dust. Perhaps, if he dug, he might find 
clay. 

As he stood by the jets, Holderlin heard a 
heavy shuffling tread through the forest. He 
ran back to the entrance port, knowing that 
on strange planets prudence and agility are 
better safeguards than a needle-beam and 
steel armor. 

The-creature of the footsteps passed close 
beside the ship, a thin shambling being 
fifteen feet high, vaguely manlike, with a 
spider's gaunt construction. The arms and 
legs were skin and bone, the skin was 
greenish-black, the face peculiarly long and 
vacant. 

It had a fierce shock of reddish hair at 
the back of its head, the eyes were bulging 
milky orbs, the ears were wide and ex- 
tended. It passed the Perseus with hardly a 
glance and showed neither awe nor interest. 

"Hey!" cried Holderlin, jumping to the 
ground. "Come here!" 

The thing paused a moment to regard him 
dully through the red light, then slowly 
shambled off in its original direction, stirring 
up black clouds of dust. It disappeared 
through the feathery black jungle. 

Holderlin returned to the problem of re- 
pairing the tubes. He must find clay enough 
to mold four new linings — three or four 
hundred pounds. He brought a spade from 
the ship and dug into the surface. 

He worked half an hour and turned up 
nothing but hot black humus. And the 
deeper he dug, the thicker and tougher grew 
the roots of the fungus trees. He gave up 
in disgust. 

A S HE climbed, sweating and dusty, from 
St* his hole, a little breeze raced along the 
top of the jungle stirring the fronds, and in 
the black fog which floated down, Holderlin 



discovered the origin of the black powder at 
his feet — spawn. 

He must find clay, clean yellow clay, the 
nearer the better. He did not fancy carrying 
this clay on his shoulder any great distance. 
He looked to where the lifeboat dangled by 
its nose from the bow of the Perseus. 

He saw that the shackle, with the entire 
weight of the lifeboat hanging on it, was 
locked. Holderlin scratched his head. He 
would have to balance the boat on the gravity 
units, releasing the shackle from all strain, 
to remove it. 

But when he finally poised the boat in 
mid-air and climbed out on the nose, he 
discovered that his shift of position had 
weighted the bow and that if he unscrewed 
the shackle, the boat very likely would nose 
down and throw him to the ground. 

Cui'sing both shackle and lifeboat, Holder- 
lin let the boat hang against the hull as be- 
fore and made his way to the ground. He 
entered the ship and outfitted himself with 
a sack, a light spade, a canteen of water and 
spare charges for his respirator. 

"Aboard the Perseus.' Aboard the Perseus.' 
Respond, Perseus.'" 

Holderlin chuckled grimly and sat down 
beside the speaker. 

"Aboard the Perseiis!" came the call again. 
"This is Captain Creed speaking. If you are 
alive and listening, respond immediately. 
You have bested us fair and square, and we 
hold no grudge. But no matter how you 
reached this planet you cannot go farther. 

"A detector screen surrounds you, and 
we will heterodyne any distress call you 
broadcast." 

Evidently Captain Creed had not yet sur- 
mised who had run off with his ship, or how 
it had been accomplished- Another voice 
broke in, harder and sharper. 

"Respond immediately," said the new 
voice, "giving your position, and you will 
receive a share in the venture. If you do 
not, we shall know how to act when we find 
you, and we will find you if it means search- 
ing the planet foot by foot!" 

All during this pronouncement, the 
strength of the radio carrier wave had in- 
creased rapidly, and now Holderlin heard 
a low mutter, rapidly waxing to a roar. 
Running to the port, he spied the black 
pirate ship sweeping toward him across the 
green sky, just under the canopy of many- 
colored clouds. 

Almost overhead the brake-blasts spewed 
forward, and the ship slowed in its majestic 
course. Trapped — thought Holderlin. With 
racing pulse he leapt for the lifeboat. The 
shackle he'd blast away with his needle- 
beam! 

But the black ship passed across the 
mountain, where it slowly sank from sight. 



PLANET OF THE BLACK DUS1 



75 



sunlight glinting from its sides. Holderlin 
breathed easily again. This world was small, 
and the mountain made a prominent land- 
mark. Probably the same reasons that had 
brought him here to hide, led them here to 
seek him. 

At least he knew where his enemies were 
stationed, a matter of some advantage. How 
to escape them, he as yet had no notion. 
They seemed invulnerable with a fast well- 
armed ship against his wrecked hulk, and 
certainly no less than thirty or forty in the 
crew. 

Holderlin shrugged. First he must repair 
the tubes. Then he would try his luck at 
winning clear. And if he could bring that 
scented cargo only as far as Laroknik on 
Gavnad, the sixth of Delta Aquila, the uni- 
verse lay open to him. 

He'd buy a space-yacht, a villa on Fan, the 
Pleasure Planet. He'd buy an asteroid and 
create a world to his whim, as did the Em- 
pire's millionaires. 

Holderlin put aside his dreaming. He took 
his sack and plodded off through the black 
dust in the direction of the mountain, seeking 
clay. A half mile from the ship, the feathery 
black canopy overhead thinned, and he en- 
tered a clearing. 

Within this clearing moved a score of the 
tall manlike creatures. But their hair was 
not reddish like that of the creature that had 
passed him in the wood. It was greenish 
black. They stood busy with an enormous 
beast, evidently domesticated. 

This had a great round body, as big as a 
house, supported on a circle of wide arching 
legs. With two long tentacles it stuffed the 
black tree-fronds into a maw on top of its 
hulk. Below hung a number of teats at which 
the black things worked, squirting a thin 
green liquid into pots. 

|| OLDERLIN passed through the clearing, 
full in the red sunglow, but beyond a 
few dull glances, they took no heed of him. 
Continuing a mile or so, he came to the edge 
of the forest and the steep rises of the moun- 
tains. 

Almost at his feet he found what he sought. 
In the diminished gravity he loaded into his 
sack a great deal more than he might have 
carried on Earth — perhaps a half of his needs 
— and set out in return. 

But as he waded through the black dust 
the sack grew heavy, and by the time he 
reached the clearing where the natives tend- 
ed their beast, his arms and his back ached. 

He stood resting, watching the placid na- 
tives at their work. It occurred that possibly 
one of them might be induced to serve him. 

"Hey — you!" he called to the nearest, as 
best he could through the respirator. "Come 
here!" 



This one looked at Holderlin without in- 
terest. 

"Come here!" he called again, although 
plainly the creature could not understand 
him. "I need some help. I'll give you — " he 
fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a small 
signal mirror — "this." 

He displayed it, and presently the native 
shambled across tbe glade to him. It stooped 
to take the mirror, and a hint of interest 
came over the long doleful face. 

"Now take this," said Holderlin, giving 
over the sack of clay, "and follow me." 

At last the creature understood what was 
required of him, and with no show of either 
zeal or reluctance, took the bag in its rickety 
arms and shuffled along behind Holderlin to 
the ship. When they arrived. Holderlin went 
within and brought out a length of shiny 
chain, and showed it to his helper. 

"One more trip, understand? One more 
trip. Let's go." The creature obediently fol- 
lowed him. 

Holderlin dug the clay, loaded the bag into 
the native's arms. 

Above them came the sound of voices, 
footsteps, scuffling and grating on the rock. 
Holderlin crept for cover. The native stood 
stupidly, holding the sack of clay. 

Three figures came into sight, two of them, 
panting through respirators — Blaine and a 
tall man whose pointed ears and high-arched 
eyebrows proclaimed Trankli blood. The 
third was a native with a red mop of hair. 

"What's this?" cried the Trankli half- 
breed, spying Holderlin's helper. "That sack 
is—" 

They were the last words he spoke. A 
needle-beam chattered and cut him down. 
Blaine whirled about, grabbing for his own 
weapon. A voice brought him up short. 

"Drop it, Blaine! You're as good as dead!" 

Blaine slowly dropped his hands to bis 
sides, glaring madly in the direction of the 
voice, his malformed lip twitching. Holder- 
lin stepped from the shadow into the scarlet 
sunlight, and his face was as ruthless as 
death itself. 

"Looking for me?" 

He walked over and took Blaine's needle- 
beam. He noted the native's reddish mop of 
hair. This was the one that had passed him in 
the woods, was evidently in league with his 
enemies. 

The needle-beam spoke once more, and the 
tall black body crumpled like broken jack- 
straws. Holderlin's worker watched im- 
passively. 

"Can't have any tale-bearers," said Hold- 
erlin, turning his ice-blue eyes on Blaine. 

"Why don't you give up, Holderlin?" 
snarled Blaine. "You can't get away alive." 

"Do you think you'll outlive me?" mocked 
Holderlin. "What's that you've got? A ra- 



76 



dio, hey? I'll take that." He did so. "The 
native was taking you to the Perseus, and 
you were going to flash back the position. 
Right?" 

"That's right," admitted Blaine sourly, 
wondering at what moment he was to be 
killed. 

Holderlin mused. 

"What ship are you in?" 

"The Maetho — Killer Donahue's. You 
can't get away, Holderlin. Not with Donahue 
after you." 

"We'll see," said Holderlin shortly. 

So it was Killer Donahue's Maetho.' Hold- 
erlin had heard tales of Donahue — a slight 
man of perhaps forty years, with dark hair 
and a pair of black eyes which saw around 
corners and into men's minds. He had a droll 
clown's face, but past deeds of blood and loot 
did not echo the humor of his countenance. 

Holderlin thought a moment, staring at the 
flaccid Blaine. The native stood uninterest- 
edly holding the clay. 

"Well, you wanted to see the Perseus" 
Holden said at last. "Start moving." He 
gestured with the needle-beam. 

Blaine went slowly, sullenly. 

"Do you want to die now," inquired 
Holderlin, "or are you going to do as I say?" 

"You got the gun," growled Blaine. "I got 
no say at all." 

"Good," said Holderlin. "Then move fast- 
er. And tonight we'll cook linings for the 
steering jets." He motioned to the waiting 
native. With Blaine ahead, they plodded off 
toward the ship. 

"What's over the mountain? Donahue's 
hideout?" Holderlin asked. 

BTjAINE nodded dourly, then decided he 
had nothing to lose by truckling to 
Holderlin. 

"He gets thame-dust here, sells it on Fan." 

Thame was an aphrodisiac powder. 

"The natives collect it, bring it in little pots. 
He gives them salt for it. They love salt" 

Holderlin was silent, saving his energy for 
plowing the black dust. 

"Suppose you did get away," Blaine 
presently put forward, "you never could sell 
those oils anywhere. One whiff of sorang and 
you'd have the Tellurian Corps of Investiga- 
tion on your neck." 

"I'm not selling them." said Holderlin. 
"Think I'm a fool? What do you think I got 
that certification of shipwreck for? I'm going 
to claim salvage. That's ninety per cent of 
the value of ship and cargo, by law." 

Blaine was silent. 

When at last they arrived, weary and be- 
gsinied with black dust, the native dropped 
the sack and held out a gangling arm. 

"Fawp, fawp," it said. 

Holderlin looked at him in puzzlement 



STARTLING STORIES 

"It wants salt," said Blaine, still intent on 



ingratiating Holderlin. "They do anything for 
salt." 

"Is that so?" said Holderlin. "Well, we'll 
go in the galley and find some salt." 

So Holderlin gave the native the bit of 
chain and a handful of salt and dismissed it. 
He turned back to Blaine and gave him the 
radio. 

"Call up Creed or Donahue and tell them 
that the native says you won't reach the ship 
till tomorrow night — it's that far off." 

Blaine hesitated only an instant, long 
enough for Holderlin to lay a significant hand 
on his needle-beam. He did as was told. He 
called Creed, and Creed seemed satisfied with 
the information. 

"Tell him you won't call again till to- 
morrow night," said Holderlin. "Say that's 
because Holderlin might catch an echo of the 
beam from the mountain." 

Blaine did so. 

"Good," said Holderlin. "Blaine, we're go- 
ing to get along very well. Maybe I won't 
even kill you when I'm done with you." 

Blaine swallowed nervously. He disliked 
this kind of talk. Holderlin stretched his 
arms. 

"Now we'll make make tube linings. And 
because you ruined the last set, you'll do 
most of the work." 

All night they baked linings in the atomic 
furnaces, Blaine, as Holderlin had promised, 
working the hardest. His bald head glis- 
tened in the glow from the furnace. 

As soon as the linings were finished — no 
longer clay, but heavy metallic tubes — 
Holderlin clamped them in place. And when 
the angry little sun came over the horizon, 
the Perseus was once more in condition to 
navigate. 

With Blaine's help, Holderlin unshackled 
the lifeboat from the hull and brought it to 
the ground beside the Perseus. Then Holder- 
lin locked Blaine in a storage locker. 

"You're lucky," he observed. "You can 
sleep. I have to work." Holderlin had seen a 
ten-pound can of vanzitrol in the Perseus 
armory — a compound stable chemically, but 
uncertain atomically. Holderlin ladled about 
a pound into a paper sack, enough to blast 
the Perseus clear through the planet. 

He found a detonator and, entering the life- 
boat, took off. Feeling safe from observation 
after Blaine's information, he skimmed low 
over the black jungle until, about thirty miles 
from the Perseus t he found a clearing which 
suited him. not too large, not too small 

He landed and buried the vanzitrol and the 
detonator in the center. Then he returned to 
the Perseus and slept for four or five hours. 

When he awoke, he aroused Blaine. They 
got in the lifeboat, flew to the mined clear- 
ing. Holderlin set the lifeboat down two 



PLANET OF THE BLACK DUST 



hundred yards out in the jungle. 

"Now Blaine," he said, "you're to call 
Creed and tell him you've found the Perseus. 
Tell him to take a bearing on the radio beam 
and come at once. Tell him there's a clearing 
handy for him to land in." 

"Then what?" asked Blaine doubtfully. 

"Then you'll wait in the clearing until the 
Maetho is about to land. After that I'll give 
you a ci.oice. If you want to return aboard 
the Maetho, you can stay where you are. If 
you want to stay with me, you'll run like mad 
for the lifeboat. Suit yourself." 

Blaine did not answer, but a suspicious 
look crept into his eyes, and his lips curled 
craftily. 

"Send the message," said Holderlin. 

Blaine did so, and Holderlin was satisfied. 
They had cornered Holderlin in the Perseus, 
said Blaine, and Mordang, the Trankli half- 
breed, was holding him while Blaine radioed. 

"Very good, Blaine!" came back Creed's 
voice. Then Donahue asked a few sharp 
questions. Had the Perseus crashed? No, re- 
plied Blaine, she was sound. Could the Per- 
seus bring her needle-beam to bear on the 
clearing? No, the clearing was quite safe, a 
half mile astern of the Perseus. Donahue or- 
dered Blaine to wait in the clearing for the 
ship. 

Twenty minutes later Holderlin, hidden in 
the jungle, and Blaine standing nervously in 
the clearing, saw the hulk of the Maetho come 
drifting overhead. 

■ T HOVERED about five hundred yards 
* above. Blaine, nakedly caught in the red 
sunlight, waved an arm to the ship at Holder- 
lin's brittle command. 

There was a pause. The cautious Donahue 
apparently was inspecting the situation. 

Presently Holderlin, waiting tensely at the 
edge of the forest, saw a small scout boat 
leave the Maetho, drift down toward the 
clearing. His mouth tightened. He cursed 
once, bitterly. 

This meant either Creed or Donahue had 
smelled a rat. His plan could not succeed — 
he'd have to move fast to escape with his 
skin! Blaine also knew the jig was up, was 
uncertain which way to jump. 

He decided that under the circumstances 
Holderlin offered the least immediate danger, 
and casually began to leave the clearing. At 
once Donahue's voice crackled from a loud 
speaker. 

"Blaine! Stay where you are!" 

Blaine broke into a frightened run, but the 
black dust hampered him. From the Maetho 
a needle-beam spoke, and amid a great puff 
of black dust, Blaine exploded to his com- 
ponent atoms. 

Holderlin was already to the lifeboat, A 
slim chance remained that the lifeboat on 



77 

landing would miss the mine, and the Maetho 
would land and be blown to scrap. But this 
he doubted, as the detonator was sensitive, 
the clearing small. 

An air-rending blast as he entered bis boat 
assured him he was right. The ground 
swayed like jelly, and a hail of earth, rocks, 
bits of trees spattered far over the jungle. 
The Maetho was tossed upward like a toy 
balloon, A tremendous choking pall of black 
dust thickened the sky. 

Holderlin jerked his lifeboat into the air 
and dashed away, low to the ground, through 
the trees. He drove for his life, threading 
the trees as best he might, crashing through 
those he could not dodge. 

Nor was he too early, for all the Maetfio's 
armament had opened a savage fire on the 
jungle, blasting at each square yard. Twice 
million-watt bolts missed him by feet. 

After rocking minutes he gained clear of 
the area, and slowing his mad flight, wove a 
more careful course through the trees. 

When the Maetho was finally finished, the 
jungle lay torn into great craters and 
tangled rubbish for miles around, Holderlin, 
gingerly raising the boat so he could peer 
through the tree tops, saw the great sullen 
shape of the war-ship winging back across 
the mountain to its base. Over the clearing 
towered a black sky-filling cloud. 

He returned to the Perseus, and sat brood- 
ing in his quarters. His bolt seemed to be 
shot, and it would only be a matter of hours 
before Creed and Donahue found another 
native to guide them to his ship. 

He sprawled on his bunk, hands behind his 
head. A nucleus of information Blaine had 
given him suddenly blossomed to a plan of 
action. He got up, spooned some more van- 
zitrol from the can, gathered up a few sacks 
of salt from the galley, took off in the life- 
boat. 

Three or four hours later, with night fast 
falling across the black forest he returned, 
and there was a spring in his walk, a tri- 
umphant set to his jaw. 

Holderlin went to the teleview and boldly 
sent forth a call. 

"Aboard the Maetho! Creed or Donahue, 
come in! Maetko, come in!" The screen 
flickered to life at once. There was Donahue, 
and behind him the black bearded face or 
Captain Creed. 

"Well," said Donahue crisply. "What do 
you want?" 

Holderlin grinned. "Nothing. In about two 
minutes I'm blasting your ship to bits. If 
you enjoy life, you'll get clear." 

"What's this?" Donahue's voice snapped 
like breaking wood. "Are you trying to 
bluff me?" 

"You'll know in two minutes," responded 
Holderlin. "Three of the pots of thame-dust 



78 



STARTLING STORIES 



you took aboard today are loaded with van- 
zitrol, I've got a gamma-ray detonator you 
can't jam. Now! You've two minutes to get 
clear." 

Donahue whirled, cut in the ship's loud 
speaker. 

"Abandon ship! All hands!" he shouted. 
"Get clear.'" 

Then like a cat. he whirled about. Holder- 
lin watched in interest. Captain Creed was 
striding for the door. He met Donahue's eyes, 
and saw murder. He stopped in his tracks 
and slowly turned to face Donahue. 

Donahue began talking, and Holderlin saw 
he was not sane. Obscenities poured from his 
lips. 

"You white-faced dog, you've ruined me!" 
screamed Donahue in a high-pitched crazy 
voice, and his thin body was as tense as an 
epileptic's. 

"Let's leave the ship and argue later," 
Creed suggested coolly. 

"You'll stay here, you fat filth!" cried 
Donahue, and whipped out his ne«dle-beam. 



Creed fired his sleeve gun, and Donahue fell 
to the ground, screaming, his shoulder 
mangled. 

He picked up the needle-beam with his 
left hand and began throwing wild shots at 
Creed. Creed crouched behind the radio 
locker, unable to gain the door. A bolt 
smashed the teleview feeder lines. The 
screen went dark. 

Holderlin sat looking at his watch. He held 
one hand poised over a little black key. 

Twenty seconds, ten seconds, eight seconds, 
seven, six, five, four, three, two — "I'll give 
them five seconds more," he told himself. 
One — two — three — four — five! He snapped 
closed the key, and sat like a statue, waiting 
for the shock from across the mountain. 

Whoom! 

Holderlin stood up, a grin on his face. He 
sealed all the ports and sat himself at the 
controls. Ahead of him lay a busy week, 
wherein he must do the work of four men. 
He cracked back the throttle, and took off for 
Laroknik on Gavnad. 




'It's the Cage I Made for My Trained 
Gorilla— and I've Been Trapped 
in it tor Three Weeks!" 

MARK HAVERFORD, the mysterious scientist, spoke out of the 
depths of great despair. And Jeff and Laura Pembrook, honey- 
mooning in West Africa, shuddered at the implication of his words. 

"Yes, it's the cage I made for him," said Haverford. "See for your- 
self! Was going to experiment on him. The laugh's on me, I guess. 
It's he that did the experimenting! It's unbearable — 

"But now it will be all right," promised Laura, tears streaming down 
her cheeks. "Now we'll get you out. We must." 

"Maybe you think so. You don't know this cage. Had it made 
double strong, idiot that I was! Special fool-proof lock, too. Even a 
professional safe-cracker couldn't pick it. And if those bars — well, if a 
gorilla couldn't smash them — you'd both better watch out. When he comes back — " 

Man against monster! Primeval forces in control! That's the dread state of affairs in 
TITAN OF THE JUNGLE, by Stanton A. Coblentz, a complete novel of startling adven- 
ture in a world gone topsy-turvy. It's a novel that will hold you enthralled — and provide 
plenty of food for thought, too. It's featured jn the Summer issue of our companion 
magazine — 

THRILLING WONDER STORIES 



Now on Sale— 15c At All Stands! 




THE VICIOUS CIRCLE 

IH POLTON CROSS 

BcrcJr and forth horn past to future, like a human pendulum, 
oscillates Dick Mills — while others watch in sheer horror/ 

TUS IS the story of a man accursed, of foot eight, and my age is— well, that's part of 

Dne human being In multi-millions the story. But for the sake of convenience 

who did not get a fair chance. In a let's say that I was thirty-two when the hor- 

word, I am a sort of scapegoat of Nature. I ror started. 

resent it — bitterly, but there is absolutely It's odd, you know, how you don't always 

nothing I can do about it. appreciate the onset of something enormous- 

My name is Richard Mills. I am dark, five ly significant. I should have guessed that 



80 STARTLING 

there was something wrong when, from the 
age of fifteen I often found myself mysteri- 
ously a few hours ahead of the right time 
without knowing how I had done it. I should 
also have attached suspicion to repeating ac- 
tions I had done before. But then all of us 
have felt that we have done such-and-such 
a thing before and so, like you, I didn't think 
any more about it. 

Until the impossible happened! 

I had just left the office at 6: 15 p.m. I was 
then clerk to a big firm of lawyers. In the 
usual way I took the elevator to the street 
level and went outside. The October evening 
was darkening to twilight and the lights of 
New York were on either side of me as 
usual, climbing into drear muggy sky. 

I remember singing to myself as I swung 
along. Another day over, Betty to meet, and 
a cheery evening ahead of both of us. . . But 
I did not keep that appointment. Because, 
you see, I walked into something which was 
at once beyond all sane imagining. 

One moment I was streaking for the 'bus 
slop — then the next I was in the midst of a 
completely formless gray abyss. It had neither 
up nor down, light nor dark, form nor out- 
line. I was running on something solid and 
yet I couldn't see it, and it was just when I 
was trying to imagine the reason for this sud- 
den fog that I found myself still running 
down a broad highway I had never in my life 
seen before! 

I slowed to a standstill and cuffed my hat 
up on my forehead as I looked about me. 
The street had altered inexplicably. It was 
not gray and dirty but highly glazed, as 
though the road surface were made of pol- 
ished black glass. The traffic too was strange- 
ly designed and almost silent. There were no 
gasoline fumes — I noticed this particularly. 
In general the buildings were much the same, 
only shiny on the facades and somewhat 
taller. 

And the lighting! It was still night but in- 
stead of the usual street illumination there 
were great elliptical globes swinging in mid- 
air somehow and casting a brilliance below 
that had no shadows. Everything had the 
pallid brightness of diffused daylight. 

"Anything the matter?" a pleasant voice 
asked me. 

I TURNED sharply as a passer-by paused. 
Until now I hadn't noticed that the men 
and women passing up and down the side- 
walk were rather odd in their attire — the 



STORIES 

women in particular. The absurd hats, the 
queer translucent look of their clothes, the 
multicolored paints to enhance their features. 
Still women — eternally feminine — but differ- 
ent. And now this stranger. He was tall and 
young with pleasant eyes and the most amaz- 
ingly designed soft hat. 

"I noticed you hesitating," he explained, 
passing a curious but well mannered eye over 
my attire. "Can I help you?" 

It surprised me to find anybody so cour- 
teous. 

"I'm just wondering — where I am," I re- 
plied haltingly. "This is New York, isn't it?" 
"Yes, indeed." 
"Wall Street?" 

His look of surprise deepened. "Why, no," 
he said. "You're on Twenty-Seven Street. 
Don't you remember that all street names 
were abolished ten years ago to avoid dupli- 
cation?" 

I could only gaze at him fixedly, and he 
gave a slight smile. 

"Look here, you're mixed up somewhere," 
he said, taking my arm. "It's a part of the 
city's 'Lend a Hand' policy for us to help each 
other, so I'm going to make you my especial 
charge. Incidentally, the 'Lend a Hand' policy 
is a good idea, don't you think?" he asked, 
forcing me to stroll along with him. "It's 
done away with a lot of the old backbiting." 

"Oh, surely," I agreed, weakly. "But look 
here — er — what sort of cars are those? 
They're very quiet" 

"You mean the atom-cars? Say, where 
have you lived? And if you'll forgive me, 
that's an awfully old fashioned coat you've 
got on. I know it's a breach of courtesy but 
I'm curious." 

I dragged to a stop and faced him directly. 
"You won't credit this," I said. "But only 
what seems about ten minutes ago I was 
running down Wall Street for an ordinary 
gasoline -driven 'bus. Then I ran into a fog, 
or something and — suddenly I was here!" 

"It would be ill mannered for me to dis- 
believe," he said slowly, regarding me. "Yet 
I am puzzled. It may help you if I explain 
that you are in New York City which was re- 
surfaced with plastic in Nineteen Fifty-Eight. 
The present date is October the twelfth, Nine- 
teen Seventy-One." 

1971! Twenty-five years! Great Goeffrey! 
Somehow I had slipped a quarter of a cen- 
tury ahead of my own time of 1946. You can 
think of such things but you dare not believe 
them. Yet hang it, it had happened! 



THE VICIOUS CIRCLE 



81 



I had no opportunity to ask my genial 
friend anything more for he was blending 
into the returning gray mist, and I was back 
again in that blank world where nothing is, 
or ever was, that world which is outside time, 
gpace, and understanding. I stood wondering 
and fearful, waiting. 

This time I sensed that the interval was 
longer, but when the mist evaporated it re- 
vealed that I was back again in familiar Wall 
Street, only I had moved some two hundred 
yards from the bus stop — or, in other words — 
the precise distance I had walked with the 
stranger! 

I blinked, mopped my perspiring face, then 
glanced up at a nearby clock. It was 6:20, 
the exact time as when I had started to run 
for the bus. I had left the office at 6: 15 — five 
minutes to get down the street. . . 

Had my other adventure taken up no time 
whatever? 

By an effort I pulled myself together when 
I saw one or two passers-by looking at me 
curiously. I had to think this one out — maybe 
talk it over with Betty Hargreaves since ap- 
parently I still had time to meet her. 

But she never arrived to keep the appoint- 
ment. Finally I rang up her apartment. It 
was only after the storm with her had sub- 
sided that I realized I had arrived back in 
the same place on the following evening — 
twenty-four hours later! 

I smoothed things over with her as best I 
could, said I had been sent out of town on 
urgent business, and we promised to meet at 
the same time and place the following eve- 
ning. I didn't add, "I hope," even if I felt 
like it. 

Troubled, I began a contemplative wander- 
ing through the city, heading in the general 
direction of my rooming house. 

I never reached it. To my alarm I once 
more found myself sailing into grayness, and 
there was nothing I could do to avoid it. My 
last vision was of a distant lighted clock 
point to 11: 15. Then it was gone, and I was 
helpless, baffled, frightened. 

AMID this gray enigma all sense of direc- 
tion, time, and space vanish. I found it 
safest to stand still and wait until it cleared. 
It did so eventually and I discovered I was 
lying in bed in a quiet little room with a gray 
oblong of window revealing the night sky. 

Puzzled, I stirred restlessly and reached 
out a hand for the bedside lamp. When I 
scrambled out of bed and looked down at my- 



self I got an even bigger shock. 

I had the figure of a boy of seven years! I 
was just as I had looked at seven! 

With a kind of automatic instinct I went to 
the dressing table and stared at myself in the 
mirror. There was no doubt about it — I was 
a child once more, in my own little bedroom 
at home in Washington. My parents must be 
asleep in the next room, but somehow I didn't 
dare go and look. Yet I had the memory of 
everything I had done up to the age of thirty- 
two! 

Impossible! Idiotic! I had grown back- 
wards! 

Returning to the bed I threw myself upon 
it and struggled to sort the puzzle out. But 
gradually that impalpable mist came creep- 
ing back and I left the world of my childhood, 
wandered for a while in blank unknown, and 
then emerged into the street from which I 
had disappeared. . . 

The first thing I saw was that lighted clock 
ahead. It was still at 11: 15. Presumably I had 
once again been absent exactly twenty-four 
hours — and I had traveled twenty-five years 
backwards, even as on the other occasion I 
had traveled twenty-five years forwards. 

Can you wonder that I was sick at heart, 
perplexed? It appeared then that my inter- 
vals in "normal" time lasted about five hours 
— or to be exact 4 hours 55 minutes. Queer 
how I cold-bloodedly weighed this up. I felt 
like a visitor who has only five hours to stay 
in a town before going on his way. 

When I encountered a police officer pres- 
ently I asked him what day it was, and his 
rather suspicious answer confirmed my theo- 
ry of a twenty-four hour absence. I got away 
from him before he ran me in and went 
straight to Betty Hargreaves' apartment. For- 
tunately she had not yet gone to bed, and she 
eyed me with chilly disfavor when we were in 
the lounge. 

"I suppose I cooled my heels because you 
had urgent business again?" she asked, going 
over to the sideboard and mixing me a drink. 
"I've got a telephone, you know. You could 
have told me!" 

"I'm sorry about that appointment, Bet. I 
just couldn't keep it. I — er — " I hesitated 
over the right phrasing — "I sort of keep com- 
ing and going." 

"You're telling me?" 

She handed me my drink and raised a finely 
lined eyebrow. Betty is a pretty girl, a slim 
blond with eyes which are really blue and 
hair which is really golden. But when shi 



STARTLING STORIES 



looks annoyed — whew! 

"I never heard of a financier's chief clerk 
coming and going as much as you do," she 
commented presently, sitting down on the 
divan beside me. "What's happening, Dick? 
Is there a merger on, or what?" 

"No. It's — er — " I put the drink down and 
caught at her arm. "Bet, I need help! I'm 
in one gosh-awful spot." 

"Money, or a girl?" she questioned drily. 
"If it's money, I can help you out. Dad didn't 
exactly leave me penniless. If it's a girl, then 
let's say good night and thanks for the memo- 
ry." 

"No, it's neither," I said. "It's so hard to 
explain. You see, I — I keep seeing the future 
and the past!" 

Be it said to her everlasting credit that she 
did not even blink. She just gazed, as one 
might at a lunatic, a baby, or a dipsomaniac. 
And while she gazed I talked, the words tum- 
bling over themselves. I told her everything 
and when I had finished I expected her to 
laugh in my face. Only she didn't. Instead 
she was thoughtful. 

"It's mighty odd," she said seriously. "And 
because I know you haven't a scrap of imag- 
ination and are too gosh-darned honest to 
lie for no reason, I believe you. But it's 
creepy!" She hugged herself momentarily. 
"And what are we going to do about it?" 

"We!" Bless the girl! She was on my side. 

"I dunno," I muttered. "So far as I can 
estimate I am allowed five hours to live like 
an ordinary man, then off I go! I don't know 
if a doctor could explain it, or maybe a psy- 
chiatrist." 

"Hardly a doctor, Dick." She shook her 
fair head musingly. "It isn't as though you've 
got a pain. It's more like an illusion. You 
might do worse than see Dr. Pembroke. He's 
a psychiatrist in the Hammer sley Trust 
Building. I know because a cousin of mine 
went to him for treatment" 

I made up my mind. "I'll see him at the 
first opportunity. It won't be in the morning 
because I expect I'll be veered off again at 
about four-fifteen in the small hours. When 
I can catch up on normal working hours 111 
see what he can do for me." 

F)R ridiculous conversation this probably 
hit an all time high, yet so sure was I of 
the things which had happened to me and so 
staunch was Betty's loyalty, we might have 
been talking of the next gridiron match. Any- 
way she was a great comfort to me and, when 



I left her around 12:30, it was with the re- 
solve to master my trouble when it earn* 
upon me again. 

I went home to my rooms, learned from a 
note under the door that my firm had tele- 
phoned to inquire what had happened to me, 
and then I went to bed! Funny, but I wasn't 
tired in spite of everything, and I must have 
gone to sleep quite normally. 

But when I awoke again I was not in my 
bedroom, though I was in pajamas. 

It took me several minutes to get the hang 
of an entirely new situation. I was lying on 
my back on closely cropped and very green 
grass. The air was chilly but not unpleasant- 
ly so. The sky overhead was misty blue with 
the sun just rising. I judged it was still Oc- 
tober, but extremely mild. 

As I stood up I got a shock. A small group 
of men and women — attired so identically it 
was only by their figures I could tell any dif- 
ference in sex — was watching me. Embar- 
rassed, I stared back at them across a few 
yards of soft grass. Then I was astonished to 
behold the foremost man and woman sudden- 
ly float over to me with arms outstretched on 
either side. They settled beside me. They bed 
silver-colored wings folded flat on their 
backs. 

"I know," I sighed, as they appraised me. 
"I've no right to be here and I'm in the future. 
All right, lock me up. It won't make anv 
difference." 

The man and woman exchanged glances 
and I had the time to notice that they were 
both remarkable specimens — tall, strong, ath- 
letic-looking, with queer motors strapped to 
their waist belts from which wires led to the 
wings on their backs. 

After a good deal of crosstalk I found out 
that they belonged to the local police force, 
made up of an equal number of men and 
women, and that I was of course both a tres- 
passer and an amazing specimen to boot. 
This time, it appeared, I had slipped ahead 
not twenty five years but two hundred! 

Were I a literary man, I suppose I could 
fill a book with the marvels I discovered, but 
here it is wisest policy to sketch in the prin- 
cipal advancements. I learned that their 
amazing system of individual flight had led to 
the abolition of ordinary aircraft; that they 
had conquered space, mastered telepathy, 
overcome the vagaries of the climate, and 
completely outlawed war. Yes, it was a fair 
and prosperous land I saw in 2146. 

In the end they locked me up for examina- 



THE VICK 

Uod by their scientists, but of course it did 
them no good for as time passed I faded away 
from the prison ceil and was back again in 
New York, still in my pajamas, in the middle 
of a street, and — I soon discovered — at 4:15 
in the morning! Once again, twenty-four 
hours had elapsed since presumably I had 
vanished while asleep at 4:15, twenty-four 
hours before. 

To be thus thinly clad on an October early 
morning is no picnic. I took the only sen- 
sible course and presented myself at a police 
station, told the sergeant in charge that I had 
been sleep-walking and had just awakened. 
I was believed and I got shelter. After bor- 
rowing a suit of clothes I crept home to my 
rooms in the early dawn hours. 

Now I really was getting frightened! If this 
were to go on — good heavens! I did some 
computing and figured that I had until about 
9:15 in the morning before I'd take another 
trip, so before that time I must see Dr. Pem- 
broke. It was unlikely that he would be at 
his office so early, unless the urgency of the 
reason were stressed. 

I rang up Betty, told her what had oc- 
curred, and asked her advice. She suggested 
that I tell Pembroke over the 'phone at his 
home what had happened, and try to get him 
to be at his office before nine. She promised 
to be there, also. 

Dr. Pembroke did not sound at all enthusi- 
astic at first, but he warmed up a trifle when 
I went into explicit details. Finally he seemed 
interested enough to agree to be at his con- 
sulting rooms by 8:45. So it was arranged. 

Promptly at quarter to nine I was there 
with Betty, very serious and determined, be- 
side me. 

Grant Pembroke was at his office promptly 
on time. He was a tall, eagle-nosed man with 
very sharp gray eyes and a tautly profession- 
al manner. He ushered us both into his con- 
sulting room which was equipped with rather 
overpowering looking apparatus, and then 
switched on softly shaded fights and mo- 
tioned me to be seated in their immediate 
focus. Betty sat in the margin of the shad- 
ows. 

"So, Mr. Mills, you keep imagining you 
float away into the future and the past at 
regular intervals, eh?" he asked slowly, set- 
tling down and fixing me with those piercing 
eyes. 

HIS scepticism caused me to grow even 
more earnest. 



JS CIRCLE 83 

"I don't imagine it, Doc — it actually hap- 
pens," I told him. "And in about fifteen min- 
utes it should happen again, then you'll see 
for yourself." 

"Mmmm!" He made a brief examination 
of me as though he were a medical man, then 
sat back in his chair again and put his finger- 
tips together. "And while you are away, 
twenty - four elapse here ? " He asked the 
question thoughtfully. 

"That's correct, yes." 

"Do twenty-four hours elapse in the place 
you — er — visit ?" 

"No. It varies a lot. The only definite tim- 
ing I've noticed is that on the last occasion I 
leaped two hundred years ahead instead of 
the former twenty-five." 

"Just so, just so. A most interesting side- 
light on Time." 

"I don't want to be an interesting side- 
light!" I protested fiercely. "I want to live 
like any other man, marry the girl I love, 
and keep my job. As things are I am in dan- 
ger of losing them all. This sort of thing is 
unthinkable!" 

"Mmm, just so," he agreed. "But there is 
the other side, you know. We are dealing 
with a paradox of Time that has so far only 
been a theory and never proved. You may 
have the good fortune to be that living 
proof," 

I could only assume that he had queer 
ideas on what constitutes good fortune, and 
so I kept quiet. For another long minute he 
studied me, then turning to his desk he began 
to scribble something down on a scratch pad. 
He also made calculations and a drawing that 
looked like a plus sign with a circle running 
through it. I was just about to ask him the 
purpose of this doodling when things hap- 
pened—once again. 

Even as I felt myself drifting into gray 
mist I noticed the electric clock stood at ex- 
actly 9:15; that Betty and Pembroke had 
jumped to their feet in stunned amazement. 

Then off I went. And this movement was 
backwards in Time, not forward. . . . 

When the mists cleared, I was seated on a 
wagon, driving a horse in a leisurely manner 
along a winding country road. I saw I was 
wearing rough breeches and a flannel shirt, 
while a hot sun was blazing down on my bat- 
tered straw hat. A yokel? A farmer? A pio- 
neer? I had never been any of these things 
so far as I could remember — yet here it was! 

Glancing inside the wagon I saw a woman 
and a boy and girl asleep, and far behind my 



84 



STARTLING STORIES 



wagon were many more of similar design 
kicking up a haze of dust across the desert. 

I had to work discreetly to find out what 
was going on, and very astonished I was to 
discover that my name was Joseph Kendal, 
and that the three in the wagon were my wife 
and two children. We were heading for Geor- 
gia, which had been settled by General Ogle- 
thorpe a few years previously. In other words 
the General had fixed Georgia as he wanted it 
in 1732, and this — according to my wife — was 
1746. We were changing our domicile) every 
one of us. But all that this signified to me 
was that I had dropped back two hundred 
years even as before I had gone ahead for a 
similar period. 

I scarcely remember what happened while 
I was there. It seemed to be one endless trip 
across the desert with all the old pioneering 
flavor about it. I fitted into it without any 
effort. Everything I did seemed reasonable 
and natural. Secretly I was rather sorry 
when it all had to come to an end just after 
sunset and I was in the gray mists of Be- 
tween, Beyond, or whatever it is. . . . 

I returned to normality seated in that same 
chair in Dr. Pembroke's consulting room. He 
was opposite me, looking very weary and un- 
tidy. Betty, who had apparently been half 
asleep in the chair on the rim of the shadows, 
jerked into life as I sat gazing at her. I 
glanced round and noticed two white-coated 
nurses and two men who looked like scien- 
tists. 

My eyes moved to the clock. It registered 
9:15 and, judging from the window, it was 
daylight. 

"Twenty-four hours to the minute!" Pem- 
broke ejaculated, getting up and coming over 
to me. "Upon my soul, young man, you 
didn't exaggerate. We've been waiting, and 
waiting, ever since you disappeared from 
view. I summoned the nurses in case of need, 
and these two gentlemen here are scientists 
with whom I've been discussing your prob- 
lem." 

"The point is: have you got the answer?" 
I asked irritably. 

"Yes, yes, indeed," Pembroke assented, 
and the two scientists nodded their heads in 
grave confirmation. "But," he added, "it is 
rather a grim answer." 

"I don't mind that," I said. "Can I be 
cured?" 

— - were silent. I set my jaw and 
glanced helplessly at Betty. She could 



only stare back at me, tired from the long 
vigil, and I thought I saw tears in her eyes 
as though she were trying to control an inner 
grief. At last I looked back at Pembroke. 

"Tell me what you have done and where 
you have been," he instructed. 

I did so. "Well, let's have it!" I finished 
bitterly. "What is wrong with me?" 

He hesitated. Then going over to his desk 
he handed me a sheet of paper on which was 
a curious looking drawing, the finished effort 
which I had seen him commence just before 
I had evaporated. The drawing looked like 
a plus sign. 

The horizontal line was marked 'Tast" at 
the left hand end, and "Future" at the right 



NYPERSPACE N0W ( ime HYPERSPACE 
HICHAM MILL'S TIMELINE 


/Af TERSE CTfOAf 

POINTS s ; 


A INTERACTION 

. POINTS 


(wtwHStl K^\KL^ 




[start J ^-y 6oo ioo ^ 




NOR AAA L V 




TIMi LINE 




HYPER SPACE 


HmsffAce 


*N0W' 


LINE 



THE 
glai 



Pt. Pembroke's rough sketch 

hand end. Where the vertical line intercepted 
it in the center was the word "Now." This 
same "Now" was also inscribed at top and 
bottom of the vertical line. So far, so good. 
Now came the odd bit. 

Starting from the exact center of the plus 
sign was an ever widening curve, just like 
the jam line inside a Swiss roll. You know 
how that line circles out wider and wider? 
Well, that is what it looked like, and of course 
it inevitably crossed the right hand section of 
the horizontal line marked "Future," and the 
left hand line marked "Past." 

So I sat staring at this drawing which 
looked as though it had come out of "Alice in 
Wonderland" as Pembroke started speaking. 

"Young man, I don't want to be blunt, but 
I have to," he said. "You- are a freak of na- 
ture! Every human being, every animal, 
every thing, is following a Time Line through 
space, and that line is straight. You may re- 
call Sir James Jeans' observations on this in 
his 'Mysterious Universe?" " 

I shook my head. "I never read Jeans." 

"Mmm, too bad. Then let me quote the 



THE VICK 

relevant statement on page one forty-two 
from the Penguin Edition." Pembroke picked 
up the blue covered book. "He says — 'Your 
body moves along the Time Line like a bicy- 
cle wheel, and because of this your conscious- 
ness touches the world only at one place at 
one time, just as only part of the cycle wheel 
touches the road at one time. It may be that 
Time is spread out in a straight line, but we 
only contact one instant of it as we progress 
from past to future. . . In fact, as Weyl has 
said — "Events do not happen: we merely 
come across them." ' End quote." 

"And what has this to do with me?" I de- 
manded. 

"Just this." Pembroke returned the book 
to his desk. "Your Time Line is not straight. 
It operates in a circle, like that circular de- 
sign you see there. You told me that, in ear- 
lier life, you noticed you were unaccountably 
late sometimes and unusually early at 
others?" 

"Ye-es," I agreed, thinking. "That's right 
enough." 

"That," Pembroke mused, "can be taken as 
evidence of the first aberrations in the Time 
Line you were following. Now it has taken 
its first real curve. Instead of progressing 
normally in a straight line you are carried 
into hyperspace— that gray mist you have 
mentioned — which is non-dimensional, non- 
solid, non-etheric. In a word, it's plain 
vacuum — " 

"But I lived and breathed!" I interrupted 
him. 

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. 
I hesitated. Now that I came to think back, 
I wasn't! 

"You can no more be sure you lived and 
breathed than you can be sure of what you 
do under anaesthetic," he said. "But you were 
still heading along a Time Line — not of your 
own volition, mind you — but inevitably, be- 
cause Time sweeps us along with it. And so, 
when the curve struck the normal straight 
Time Line leading from past to future — the 
World Line, that is, which Earth herself is 
following — you became a part of it again, but 
you were twenty -five years ahead of the 
present." 

I nodded slowly. So far he made sense. 

"You stayed there for a period of which 
you are uncertain, chiefly because your sense 
of Time had become catastrophically upset. 
And then, still impelled along this circular 
Time Line, you came back through hyper- 
space and once more intersected the normal 



US CIRCLE 85 

Now Line exactly twenty-four hours after- 
wards. Events then proceeded normally for a 
while until — still following the uircle — you 
passed through hyperspace to a past event. 
Then, hyperspace intervened once more, and 
so you came back to Now." 

"Then as the circles grow larger from the 
center the gaps will become correspondingly 
greater?" I questioned, and my voice sounded 
as though it did not belong to me. 

WfcR. PEMBROKE gave me a sympathetic 
WW glance and nodded. 

"Just so; and the mathematical accuracy of 
first, twenty-five and then, two hundred 
years — forward and backward — shows that 
the problem is not a disorder but a mathe- 
matical fluke quite beyond human power to 
alter. You move in a circle, Mr. Mills, not a 
straight line,, and unless at some point the 
circle turns back on itself — an unlikely pos- 
sibility since the Universe is a perfect cyclic 
scheme — I can foresee nothing else but . . , 
endless circular traveling, gradually taking 
in vast segments of Time until, . . 

PEMBROKE stopped and the room seemed 
deathly quiet. For some reason though, I was 
calm now the thing was explained. 

"Can you account for my not feeling 
tired?" I asked presently. 

"Certainly. You somewhat resemble a bat- 
tery. You use up energy in a forward move- 
ment into Time because you are, in essence, 
moving into the unexplored — but in the back- 
ward movement the energy replaces itself 
because you are merely returning to a state 
already lived. You cannot grow old, or tired, 
or suffer from catabolism in the ordinary 
way because you represent a perfect balance 
between catabolism and anabolism, the exact 
amount of each being equal because each 
journey is the same amount of Time— name- 
ly, first twenty-five, then two hundred. And 
next — well, who knows?" 

"Look here," I said slowly. "This last time 
I went back two hundred years, as I told you, 
but I was somebody else — a pioneer or some- 
thing of two centuries ago. I was never that!" 

"In a past life you must have been," he an- 
swered calmly. "Otherwise you could not 
have taken over that identity." 

"Then when I was that person why didn't 
I know what lay in the future?" 

"Perhaps you did. Can you be sure that 
you didn't?" 

This was becoming involved all right but, 



86 STARTLIN 

after all, I wasn't sure. No, darn it, I couldn't 
answer it. Maybe I had known! 

"And when I was a boy of seven?" I asked. 
"I presume I became a boy again because 1 
was just at that age?" 

"Just so. Time-instants are indestructible. 
You are bound to become at a certain instant 
what you are at that instant. Otherwise Time 
itself would become a misnomer. You will 
ask why — at seven years of age — you did not 
know what you would do at thirty-two? 
Again I say, are you sure you didn't?" 

"I — I don't know. I don't think so — unless 
it was buried in my subconscious or some- 
thing." 

"It must have been. It was there, that 
knowledge, but maybe you considered it as 
Just a dream fancy and thought no more 
about it, just as we speculate on how we may 
look in, say, ten years time and then dismiss 
it as pure imagination. But with you such 
an imagining would be fact. And incidentally, 
as for your carrying a memory of these pres- 
ent experiences about with you, remember 
that your physical self is all that is affected 
by Time. Mind and memory cannot alter." 

"And — what happens now?" I simply 
dragged the words out. 

"For your sake, young man, I hope things 
will straighten out for you. But if they don't 
I have a proposition. Tell rr.z, have you any 
relatives?" 

"None living, no. I was intending to marry 
Miss Hargreaves here very soon." 

"Mmmm, just so. Well, the Institute of Sci- 
ence is prepared to subsidize a trust by 
which anybody you may name can benefit. In 
return we ask that in your swing back to the 
Now Line you will give us every detail of 
what has been happening to you during your 
absences." 

I shook my head bewilderedly. 'Til — I'll 
do it willingly, but I don't want the money. 
And Bet — Miss Hargreaves — has plenty of 
money anyway. Doc, isn't there some way to 
remedy all this?" I asked desperately. "I can 
tell from your making this proposition that 
you consider it serious." 

"I'm sorry. Mr. Mills. I really am. But no 
human agency can come to grips with your 
problem." 

I was silent through a long interval, Betty 
seated now at my side. I looked at her hope- 
lessly. 

"Bet, sweetheart, what do you say? Do you 
know anybody who needs money in trust?" 
"No!" she answered bitterly. "Money is 



1 STORIES 

the cheapest, most earthy compensation sci- 
ence can offer you for a ruined life. I don't 
want any part of it. Oh, Dick! There must 
be some way out of this!" 

I shook my head. There wasn't. I knew it 
now. . . Finally I told Pembroke that the 
money had better be handed over to scien- 
tific research, and on my all too infrequent 
returns to Now I would tell everything I 
knew. 

"We could marry," I whispered to Betty. 
"Only it wouldn't be fair to you. A day might 
come when I'd never return." 

PEMBROKE confirmed this quietly. "It 
will," he said. "When your circular line 
takes so wide an orbit that it passes beyond 
the ends of the Now Line into hyperspace, 
you'll vanish forever." 

Then I was doomed indeed! All I could 
hope for was an occasional glimpse of Betty. 
As for the rest, I didn't know. . . . 

My five-hour stay was taken up in signing 
legal documents. Then once more I was swept 
inevitably into hyperspace. So I went through 
the gray enigma which baffles description 
and this time I was six hundred years ahead 
of the Now Line. There was still progress, 
the building of superb cities, the conquest of 
other worlds, a sense of greater equality and 
comradeship between both sexes. . . 

So back to Now for a brief spell with a tear- 
ful Betty, a long description of my experi- 
ences to the scientists, a banquet in my honor 
at the Science Institute — then outwards and 
backwards into the past, for a gap of another 
six hundred years. 

Back and forth as the circle widened. . . . 
I have tried to keep out of this narrative 
the inner horror I experienced at it all — the 
dull, dead futility of being flung by nameless 
force into an ever widening gulf. Each time, 
of course, as the circle widened I went further 
afield. 

Hundreds of years, thousands of years, 
from one end of the pendulum's swing to the 
other — backwards into scores of lives which 
had long since been effaced from memory; 
forwards into a wonder world of ever in- 
creasing splendor. . . 

Then, in the tens of thousands of years 
ahead, I saw Man was pretty close to leaving 
his material form altogether and becoming 
purely mental. So much so that, on my visit 
after this one, Earth was empty and turning 
one face to the sun. Age, old and remorseless, 
was crawling over a once busy planet. 



THE VICIOUS CIRCLE 



87 



At the opposite end of the scale life was 
swinging down into the Neanderthal man 
stage, and then further back still to where 
Man was not even present. 

But there were amoeba, the first forms of 
life, and I fancy that I must have been one 
of these! 

Backwards — forwards — with the visions of 
Now mere shadows in a universe which was 
to me insane. Nothing made sense any more. 
I was losing touch with every well remem- 
bered thing, with the dear girl who always 
awaited my comings and goings— growing 
older, but always loyal. And around her the 
cold, impersonal scientists logging down in- 
formation that could chart the course of civil- 
izations for ages to come. No wonder I had 
seen progress ahead! My own guidance had 
prevented any mistakes and in those distant 
visions I had seen the fruit of my own advice! 
Incredible — yet true. 

Gradually I realized that my Time Circle 
was now becoming so huge that it was involv- 
ing a stupendous orbit which did not include 
Earth but the Universe as a whole, proving 
how independent of normal Time Lines had 
my vicious circle become. 

In my swing I saw the birth of the Earth 
and the gradual slowing down of the Uni- 



verse. This, I think, is destined to be my last 
return to the Now Line, for the next curve 
will be so enormous that — well. I do not think 
I shall be able to make contact with the Now 
Line at all. The scientists have charted it all 
out for me. 

The curve will take me to the period of the 
initial explosion which created ttie expanding 
universe out of— what? That will be in the 
past. And my futureward movement will car- 
ry me to that state of sublime peace where 
all the possible interchanges of energy have 
been made, where there exists thermody- 
namical equilibrium and the death of all that 
is. At either end of the curve Time is non- 
existent.' This is where I may at last find rest. 

As I think on these things, writing these 
last words in the world of Now, 1 cannot help 
but marvel at what I have done. . . But I hate 
it! I hate it with all my human soul! Oppo- 
site to me in this bright room Betty is seated, 
silent, dry-eyed, faithful to the last. Science 
is still represented in the quiet men in the 
chairs by the far wall, all of them busy writ- 
ing and checking notes. 

Never was so strange a sentence passed 
on a human being! 

The grayness is coming! I have no time to 
write any more. . . . 




A NEW SPECIES Of GENIUS PRESENTS A DIFFICULT PROBLEM 
TO A FATHER OF THE FUTURE 



ABSALOM 

An Astonishing Fantastic Story 

By HENRY KUTTNER 

COMING NEXT ISSUE! 



DttrtM Om waited until the woman •» looking aw»y, then laid a heave hand on Denton Two's shoulder 



EXTRA EARTH 

By ROSS ROCKLYNNE 

President Woodward and his cabinet wage a unique war on 
the six evil men who have made a duplicate of the world! 



ARTHUR WOODWARD, youngest 
Protectorate President ever to hold 
office in the World Government, had 
a dream that night. In the dream, he was 
yanked out of bed and before him stood six 
of the ugliest, most repulsive old men he had 
ever seen. 

"Arthur Woodward," one of the old men 
snapped. "Be informed that we are not 
pleased with you and yours!" 



Arthur Woodward carefully sat on the 
edge of his bed, grinning. What a dream! 
But he would hear the dream out, even take 
part in it — and be properly amused. 

"Tell me more," he begged. 

They told him, snarling the words. It ap- 
peared that they were living entities who 
had come out of interstellar space. They 
had merely taken the appearance of old men 
for their purposes — their purpose being to 



EXTRA 

judge the peoples of Earth. Were Earth peo- 
ple kind? Were they humble? Were they 
decent to their fellow man? To discover the 
answers to these questions the six old men, 
who in their natural habitat were but elec- 
tronic swirls which could move through 
space with the speed of light, had stationed 
themselves on various busy street corners 
throughout the Earth. They had danced on 
their old legs, they had sung in their cracked 
voices, and they held out their hats to pass- 
ersby, begging for alms. But people had 
merely looked at them amusedly and gone 

"A curse be on you selfish Earthlings!" 
raved one old man. 

"Your conceit is overbearing!" said a 
second. 

Oh, it was a strange dream all around! 

Arthur Woodward laughed. 

"Old men, you're a bunch of bored, mis- 
chievous rascals!" he said sternly. "After 
years of wandering through space, you want 
some excitement. So you picked out the one 
way of judging Earth that won't work. Why? 
Well, because we don't have poverty. We 
don't have beggars. To the people who re- 
fused to give you alms, you were eccentrics, 
having fun, and that you were seriously ask- 
ing for money never entered their heads." 

They ringed him in a spitting, angry circle. 
One shook his hand over his head. 

"This is our curse," said he, ignoring 
Woodward's accusation. "You love your- 
selves too much. Therefore, you and yours 
shall be doubled, that you may enjoy your- 
selves twice as much!" 

Then the six old men turned into their 
normal electronic vapors, and went wisping 
out the window. 

And Arthur Woodward yawned. What a 
dream. He went back to bed. He slept. . . . 

EN ROUTE from Mars to Earth, the 
giant space-liner Winlco, carrying a full 
cargo of Martian foodstuffs, throbbed and 
trembled down its length as it slipped 
through the deeps of space. 
In the chart room was an insane confusion. 
"Earth is off our port bow, sir!" 
"Impossible," snapped Captain Anders, 
bursting into the room, annoyed with an in- 
credible example of incompetence. He strode 
to the televis plate. He took one look at the 
azure, sun-lit planet and grabbed convul- 
sively at the edge of the instrument board. 
He turned rigidly to his first mate. 



EARTH 89 

"When were we supposed to dock at 
Earth?" 

"At twenty-one o'clock, sir. In fourteen 
hours." 

There was silence. The voice of insanity 
whispered lightly to each officer in the room. 
Anders closed his eyes, trying to think. With 
an effort, he opened them, drew himself 
erect * 

"Men, one of two remarkable things has 
happened," he said slowly. "Either the planet 
Earth has jumped clear across space to a 
new point in its orbit, or we of this ship 
have been under an anesthetic for the last 
fourteen hours. We will, however, cease all 
speculation, and prepare for the landing." 

An hour later, Anders came down the 
gangplank in his trim white uniform. He 
looked around on the space-field. The depot 
and various administration buildings loomed 
to the left, the wooded forest to the right, 
and on the horizon could be seen the glow 
of the distant city. This was the field, this 
was the planet And coming toward him was 
the space-field supervisor. 

The man stopped within a few feet of An- 
ders, his face unnaturally tense. 

"Is it — is it really you, Captain Anders?" 
he faltered. 

"Who else?" Anders was irritated. "What's 
going on? Apparently, I'm fourteen hours off 
schedule." 

"Off schedule?" the other repeated, shak- 
ing violently. "Captain Anders, you haven't 
even left the planet! You're back before 
you started!" He moaned. "Please come 
" with me, Captain Anders." 

The supervisor took Anders to the space- 
field personnels' restaurant. Here a crew was 
gathered at a large table, enjoying the cus- 
tomary take-off meal. 

It was Captain Anders' crew. 

And at the head of the table sat Captain 
Anders. 

The Captain Anders of the table and the 
Captain Anders who had just entered the 
restaurant saw each other at the same time. 
There was a raw, seething silence. As one 
man, the crew came to their feet, staring. 

Anders One walked toward Anders Two. 
He knew he was looking at himself. He didn't 
know why. But he did know this, shockingly. 
He hated that other "him" as he had never 
hated anything in his life. Yet he kept his 
emotions and his voice under a supreme con- 
trol. 

"We don't know what has happened," he 



90 



STARTLING STORIES 



remarked. "What ever it is, this I know — 
you and I must be friends." He paused. 
What he had said sounded like nonsense — 
that he should insist on friendship with — 
himself. 

"Do you agree?" he asked. 

At that moment, the annunciator on the 
wall crackled: 

"All space services will stand by for a spe- 
cial announcement." 

"This is Arthur Woodward, Protectorate 
President of Earth," a deep, resonant voice 
spoke a moment later. "I make the follow- 
ing declaration without explanation: Just a 
few moments ago, Martian officials gave us 
startling, verified information. The planet 
Earth has fallen behind two hundred thirty- 
six million miles in its orbit. Further, at the 
point in space which our Earth should oc- 
cupy, there is another planet of identical size, 
and with an identical satellite. 

"All space- flights are hereby canceled until 
further notice." 

The annunciator was silent. Captain An- 
ders II rose from his place at the table and 
advanced halfway to meet Captain Anders I. 

"I agree," he said quietly. 

He stuck out his hand toward that of An- 
ders I. 

Neither of the duplicates was prepared for 
what happened. But to one of them it didn't 
matter. . . . 



On the planet Mars shortly after this, Dar 
Tal, Marto -Tellurian Trade Relations Media- 
tor, which important office gave him virtual 
control of the planet, kept that tremendous 
calm for which he and his race were noted. 
He listened to the pronouncement of his chief 
astronomer and languidly fondled the hem of 
his gold robe. 

"I foresee trouble," said Dar Tal. "We have 
two planet Earths, swimming along in their 
orbits at different points. Why this is so, we 
shall not conjecture at the present moment. 
It is sufficient that your telescopic observa- 
tions have proved that each of these planets 
duplicates the other in every respect — dia- 
meter, gravity, population, cities, machines — 
everything a duplicate in every minor detail. 

"The problem is, What shall be our atti- 
tude toward these planets? What will be 
their attitude toward each other? A grave, 
even a serious problem. Quagga, that planet 
which is at its correct place in its orbit shall 
hereafter be referred to as Earth One, the 
other Berth Two." 



ffc UAGGA nodded. "They shall so be en- 
^^tered in our catalogue," he said, and 
left Dar Tal's presence. 

Dar Tal was wearing a thoughtful, cal- 
culating half-smile on his red, scaled face a 
half hour later when his subordinates — a 
half dozen Trade Masters — assembled in ses- 
sion extraordinaire. 

"You have heard the news?" Dar Tal 
asked. 

"We have heard it, sir. It has spread to 
every corner of Mars." 

Dar Tal looked at each Martian compel- 
lingly. 

"You realize, of course, that a grave prob- 
lem is on our hands. We have certain trade 
contracts with a planet known as Earth. 
Earth is dependent on us for food, as we are 
— or were? — dependent on her for the arti- 
facts of civilization. Now it is fairly obvious 
to you that we cannot supply both Earth 
One and Earth Two with the same tremen- 
dous volume of exported foods that we for- 
merly supplied only one planet. 

"Nor, I believe, will it be to our best in- 
terests to split our food exports between two 
planets, for then — " Dar Tal smiled slyly 
- — we will make two enemies where we need 
only make one. Do you follow me, gentle- 
men?" 

"Such a policy will mean that one of the 
Earths will eventually starve," one Trade 
Master said dubiously. 

A flash of hatred crossed Dar Tal's face. 
Then it passed. 

"And why not?" he said smoothly. "Earth- 
lings have always felt themselves superior 
to us. At times they have treated us like 
scum. Were it not that we needed each other 
in order to survive, there might have been 
open war. As it is, both planets need us, but 
we need only one." 

"But on what basis shall we decide which 
planet shall receive our favor?" 

Dar Tal sneered. 

"Where are your wits this fine morning? 
Which planet, Earth One or Earth Two, is 
nearer Mars?" . . . 

There was a knocking on Arthur Wood- 
ward's door that morning. He opened it 
sleepily, snugging a robe tight around his 
lean waist. 

"Well, Bob." Woodward recognized one of 
his firmest friends, Bob Denton, Secretary of 
Interplanetary Affairs. He said with sudden 
sharpness, when Denton stood on the thres- 



EXTRA 

hold shivering with a strange dread, "What's 
wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost." 

"Have you heard?" Denton said hoarsely. 

"About what?" 

"About Earth Two! Gosh, Arthur, it's on 
everybody's lips. Amateur astronomers, then 
professionals, must have got hold of it first. 
Then the rumor spread. A couple of news- 
papers have it now. I thought it was pop- 
pycock, until I received the interplanetary 
call from Captain Anders of the trade ship 
Winko." 

Woodward was at sea. Slowly, explicitly, 
Denton explained, his voice cold wth con- 
trolled emotional shock. In the last hour he 
had received countless frantic queries from 
amateur and professional astronomers alike. 
Then from newspaper editors; and finally 
from Anders. 

"Anders was calling from the other Earth," 
said Denton, lowering himself shakily to a 
seat. "He was telling me his story — how he 
met his duplicate, met himself. And here's 
what's strange about the call, Arthur. Sud- 
denly the connection was broken. I heard a 
cry, the sounds of a fight. The line was dead. 
What do you imagine happened to Anders?" 

Woodward stood quite still until Denton 
had finished, then he moved over to a pol- 
ished plastic table, picked up a cigarette case, 
selected one and lighted it. He inhaled, his 
eyes narrowed against the smoke. In him, a 
storm had broken loose, and memories of a 
dream — what he had thought was a dream — 
blew like a nauseous wind through his mind. 
Six old men. Six malicious entities, bored 
with themselves on their long pointless flight 
through spacial emptiness. 

He turned to Denton and trld Denton his 
dream. 

"Arthur, you really think that is the rea- 
son for what has happened?" Denton began 
incredulously. 

Woodward laughed mirthlessly. 

"I'm sure of it. What else? How else can 
we explain this confounded duplication of 
worlds? Would our science be able to per- 
form such a feat? But six electronic entities, 
beings whose bodies are pure force, who can 
control and mold energy the way we pour 
steel, and probably with less trouble — they 
could make such a world. 

"You shall be doubled that you may enjoy 
yourselves twice as much," he said softly. 
"Six blundering, meddlesome, malignant, 
evil old men!" Angrily he crushed his cigar- 
ette. "Well, Denton, we have to act and we 



EARTH 91 

have to act fast. What will be the political 
implications of these dual worlds? What will 
be our new relations with Mars? 

"First of all — and these are orders — all 
space-flight will cease. Interplanetary radio 
communication will shut down. The news- 
papers will be ordered to make no mention 
of the event until a suitable time. The audio- 
vis networks will refrain from discussing the 
subject." 

"But why?" Denton asked. "Why all these 

precautions?" 

W'OODWARD snorted. "How do we 
know Earth Two will be friendly?" 
Denton was pale. 

"But they're us, Arthur. They "re you and 
me and everybody else. You can't hate your- 
self — " He stopped, faltering. 

Woodward smiled ironically. "Or can 
you?" 

On that note, Denton left, and in the time 
left before the blanket restrictions were put 
through, Woodward tuned in his televis set, 
and listened to broadcasts originating from 
all over Earth. In that way, he secured a 
picture of a stunned humanity. And in the 
mind of each human being was one paralys- 
ing thought: What is the other me like? 
How will he affect me? 

From one such broadcast, Woodward 
learned bitterly that already at least one big 
newspaper editor had put through a call to 
his double on Earth Two. Woodward broke 
all laws in having the man brought before 
him. 

The editor was pale, harrassed. But his 
voice was savage as he answered Woodward's 
questions. 

"Sure, the political implications are going 
to be fierce. But do you realize' the really 
big issue? My newspaper carries advertise- 
ments paid for by various Martian food-sell- 
ing and manufacturing concerns. Which 
newspaper, his or mine, both being identical, 
will continue to receive those advertising 
contracts?" 

"Perhaps the Martians will give contracts 
to both your newspapers," suggested Wood- 
ward. 

"Yeah? Listen here, Woodward, you're 
president, you should know the answers. 
Marto-Tellurian relations are symbiotic. We 
depend on them entirely for food, and they 
depend on us entirely for machinery and all 
the mechanical doodads and artifacts that 
keep a civilization going. But now there are 



92 



STARTLING STORIES 



two Earths, and the Martians need only one. 
Why, we couldn't grow enough food on Earth 
to feed a million people a year. So what's 
going to happen if Mars sends all her food 
exports to the other Earth?" 

Woodward had not been unaware of the 
problem. On the contrary it was sharp in his 
consciousness. He was merely trying to cap- 
ture the quality of peoples' feeling toward 
Earth II before he acted. A ruler needs to 
know the instinct of a people in order best 
to serve them. His gray, sharp eyes bored 
into those of the editor. 

"You've seen your double, talked with 
him," Woodward said. "What's your feeling 
toward him?" 

The editor flinched. Then a dogged ex- 
pression came to his craggy face. 

'Til tell you the truth, Woodward. I hate 
his innards!" 

"But he's you." 

"Is he? He's got my newspaper, he's got 
my wife and my kids. He's got my body. 
What's he going to do with them?" 

"You've got your own newspaper, wife, 
kids and body," Woodward reminded the 
editor humorlessly. 

The editor was baffled 

"I don't know why I hate him," he growled. 
"It's psychological, I'd say. But I do know 
this. Earth Two is where Earth One was two 
weeks ago. And the people are the people 
of two weeks ago. That means that my dou- 
ble is going to be influenced by different 
events that I've been influenced by in the 
last two weeks. And if Mars sends Earth 
Two all her food, then the events on Earth 
Two are going to be so different that the 
people of Earth Two will be different from 
us. Environment affects character." 

The editor left, leaving Woodward with the 
paramount question on his hands: What 
would be Mars' attitude? Only one direct 
way to get the answer. He made a long-dis- 
tance interplanetary call to Dar Tal. 

Soon the Martian's studiously polite red 
face appeared on the televis screen. 

"We've been waiting to hear from you, Dar 
Tal," Woodward said civilly. 

"I am sorry, Mr. Woodward," Dar Tal said 
smoothly. "But the press of business — our 
new policy which has been forced on us — 
has prevented communication." 

"What new policy?" 

Dar Tal explained at great length, making 
numerous pleas for understanding. 

"Thus, Mr. Woodward, we have been 



forced to choose between two planets," he 
finished. "We have chosen Earth Two, ob- 
viously. Earth Two is many millions of miles 
nearer Mars, which means less time in trans- 
portation, not to speak of lowered shipping 
costs. However, do not be too alarmed. 
Whenever Earth One comes closer to Mars 
than Earth Two, then we shall do business 
solely with your planet." 

Woodward's anger spilled over. His voice 
was the voice of thunder. 

"Do you realize you are condemning a 
planet to death? We have imported food- 
stuffs from your planet as we needed them. 
We have no vast granaries stocked with food. 
Before a month is up my people will be on 
the road to starvation. And it will be more 
than a year before Earth One finds itself 
nearer to Mars than Earth Two. Do you 
realize that your action may plunge us into 



■ m AR TAL'S secondary eyelids now 
mW opened. "In that case, Mr. Woodward, 
you will find Mars able and ready to protect 
herself!" he said contemptuously. 

It was Dar Tal who closed the connection. 

For long moments after this graphic real- 
ization of catastrophe had been laid before 
him, Woodward stood stiffly. Then he called 
the Earth Exchange Service. 

"This is Arthur Woodward," he told the 
operator, "You will lift the ban on inter- 
planetary communication only to the extent 
of making a connection with Arthur Wood- 
ward, of Earth Two. . . ." 

He had been bulwarking himself against 
this ordeal all day. He had been trying to 
convince himself that, standing face to face 
with a man identical in every way, they 
would share the same views, the same 
thoughts. But now, as Arthur Woodward 
Two's image appeared, he knew it was not 
so, for Woodward One was the underdog. 

Instantly they hated each other. It was 
not a clear, reasoning hatred. It came from 
the emotions, which knows no reason, It 
rose out of a resentment of the ego which 
must feel its own supreme individuality. The 
ego knew fury because it faced another ego 
which presumed to be its exact equal, to 
share a brain and a body that rightfully be- 
longed to one of those egos. 

There was the clash of egos, the irresistible 
force meeting the immovable object. Had 
one of the egos been superior, the other 
would have bowed before it. As it was, they 



EXTRA EARTH 



S3 



collided, and the friction-heat of the collision 
was hatred. 

"Arthur, we wish to avoid war," Wood- 
ward One said faintly. 

"Do we?" the other Arthur said coldly. 

Desperation twisted Woodward One's face. 

"We must! Mars has already befriended 
you, deserted us. But you, by agreeing to 
trade with us, to allow us half the food- 
stuffs that come from Mars, can save people 
who are no less yours than if they lived on 
Earth Two." 

"What will you give us in exchange for 
food?" Woodward Two said calmly, 

Woodward One stared. "Machines," he 
faltered. "The products of machines. Books. 
Kitchen ut— " 

He stopped. 

And the other Woodward laughed with 
cruel pity. 

"Arthur, has fear of the future clouded 
from your mind the one clear truth in all 
this grisly mess? Listen." 

He uttered each word incisively, gray eyes 
intense. 

"Arthur, friendly relations between Earth 
One and Earth Two are forever impossible. 
What does Earth One have that Earth Two 
doesn't have already? Why should you sup- 
ply us with machines we already have in 
duplicate? Why supply us with books, when 
we have the authors of those books, and the 
books themselves? What ideas, what new 
thoughts, what cultural advantage will one 
planet ever have over the other? 

"What is there to trade, tangible or in- 
tangible? Why should we be friendly? We 
have nothing to gain, and never will have." 

"But — but you will be in precisely our 
position when Mars comes nearer Earth 
One!" 

"If famine and its consequent diseases have 
not already killed everybody of Earth One — 
which it will," said Woodward Two softly. 

And now Woodward Two's eyes darkened. 

"Arthur, the peoples of our planets hate 
each other. I hate you— you hate me! Don't 
deny it. It's infernally intolerable for me to 
remember that an exact equal of me exists. 
So this I know: there will be everlasting 
feud unless you and yours die. And, believe 
me, we want you to die. You are excess 
humanity, without the right to exist." 

Woodward One paled with fury. 

"You dare to say that! You, the shadow 
world, the unreal world, the copy of our 
world, as Martian astronomers can prove?" 



Woodward Two shrugged, faint mocking 
lines around his lips. 

"But who shall say which is the more real 
— the copy or the original? Really, Arthur!" 

Woodward One could endure no more. He 
closed the connection, sank trembling to a 
seat, covering his haggard face with his 
hands. 

There would be war. For Woodward Two 
had spoken truth, and, irony of ironies, he 
had spoken as Woodward One would have 
spoken under the same conditions. The peo- 
ples of both Earths could not continue to 
exist. It would be the people of Earth I who 
would lose this war, for food is the greatest 
weapon. . . . 

Military law ruled Earth I. Her economy 
was in the rigid hands of the state. And 
though starvation was setting in, her fac- 
tories roared at top speed, converting peace- 
time vessels into warcraft. Earth I was iso- 
lated from the sources of life, and gearing 
itself for certain death. 

Five weeks after the ultimatum from 
Woodward Two, a small, battered lifeship 
entered Earth's atmosphere. The last thou- 
sand feet the torn hulk of metal went out 
of control and a figure parachuted from the 
airlock, landing hip-deep in the yellow muck 
of the Amazon delta. 

A WEEK later, a uniformed officer asked 
admittance to Woodward One's pres- 
ence. 

"The military police in a little Brazilian 
village recently sent me a man they rescued 
from the jungle," he said earnestly. "This 
man claimed he was from Earth Two but 
belonged to Earth One. After he was patched 
up, he said it was urgent that he see you. 
So I have him here now." 

"Who is he?" 

"A Captain Anders, of the trade ship 
Winko." 

Woodward One shook Anders' hand a few 
moments later, noting the wan, pinched look 
of a man who has suffered greatly. 

"I remember your name," Woodward One 
said slowly. "You spoke to the Secretary of 
Interplanetary Affairs from Earth Two — then 
you were suddenly cut off." 

"I was cut of because that was the mo- 
ment Woodward Two ordered my arrest," 
Anders said bluntly. "He had me thrown into 
jail, as well as my crew. But one member 
of my crew had the good sense to fade out 
of the picture. Later on, he was able to ar- 



94 



STARTLING STORIES 



range ray escape in a middle-size pleasure 
cruiser. Woodward Two's police pursued me 
and burned the ship out of the sky. I have 
no doubt they were sure they killed me. But 
I escaped in a bunged up lifeboat and got to 
Earth." 

Woodward One felt an electrifying excite- 
ment. 

"And why did Woodward Two arrest you?" 

"Because I shook hands with my duplicate 
and my duplicate vanished as if he had never 
been. Woodward Two didn't want that news 
carried to Earth One. Don't you see, sir? 
We'll never beat Earth Two in war. We need 
another way, and I think I've found it." 

"How?" 

Anders' eyes held a fierce delight. "Mr. 
Woodward, there's a card game called 'Old 
Maid' in which duplicates cancel out dupli- 
cates. But before the cards are dealt, one 
card is withdrawn from the deck, leaving a 
card which has no duplicate — the Old Maid. 
The loser holds the Old Maid at the end of 
the game. 

"I propose, sir, that we consider the popu- 
lations of Earth One and Earth Two as the 
cards in the deck. And I propose that we 
change the rules of the game somewhat so 
that I, the Old Maid, whose duplicate has 
been withdrawn from the deck, be on the 
winning, not the losing side— You under- 
stand, sir?" 

Woodward understood. . . . 

The spaceship from Earth I entered the 
atmosphere of Earth II. It dropped straight 
down toward the untraveled Pacific Ocean. 
It was night. There were gunners on the 
flanks of the spaceship, watchful for signs of 
enemy craft The spaceship glided close to 
the dark swells, heading shoreward. It landed 
on an uninhabited section of the Oregon 
coast, and disgorged twelve men from the 
airlock The spaceship left, choosing the 
same inobstrusive route back to interplane- 
tary space. 

The twelve men left behind silently shook 
hands, and, each with his small leather grip, 
set out in different directions through the 
forest. Each was on his own. 

Robert Denton, Secretary of Interplanetary 
Affairs, walked endlessly. He was one of the 
dozen men. The others were men equally 
high in public office on Earth I. Denton was 
on his way to Philadelphia. 

It took hira a week. He found a road, and 
then a city. He used good Earth I money to 



buy a seat on an Earth II stratoliner. His 
only disguise was his blank, open expression. 
He was apparently an ordinary citizen of 
Earth II. 

Once in Philadelphia II, he headed for the 
park near the depot. 

Denton I always took a walk with his wife 
in the park at 6:30. So did Denton U. Denton 
I hid to one side of a shadowy path and 
waited. 

Denton II came soon enough, walking 
slowly with his wife. And as Denton II 
passed him, Denton I stepped behind him, 
waited until the woman was looking away, 
then laid a heavy hand on Denton IVs 
shoulder. 

"Darling, the park is so restful at this 
hour," Anabel n mused, turning her pretty 
head. Then her breath caught. "Why, Bob! 
You're so dressed up. Weren't you wearing 
a sport outfit?" 

"Was I?" Denton laughed fondly until his 
heart stopped racing. He patted her hand. 
You must be getting absent-minded, dear. 
Truth is, I'm not a quick-change artist." 

So it was over all of Earth that day. Dupli- 
cates, creeping up behind duplicates. 

And in days to come, more ships, and more, 
made the trip from Earth I, smuggling high- 
ranking passengers. 

The hand had been dealt, the game was 
being played. . . . 

OENTON One had a visitor at his home 
a few weeks later — a man wrapped in 
a heavy scarf and wearing thick dark glasses. 
Denton took the man to his room — and Ar- 
thur Woodward One ripped off his disguise. 
They shook hands warmly, but there was a 
haunting despair on Denton's thin face. 

"Arthur, until yesterday morning, I 
thought everything was going fine," he said, 
shivering. "W«*Ve smuggled in most of the 
members of the Cabinet, and half of the Pro- 
vince Governors, from Earth One. All have 
successfully canceled out their duplicates, the 
way we planned. Now it remains only for 
you to complete the link, to cancel out Wood- 
ward Two! Then we can act. But now I'm 
afraid." 

Denton's fear caught at Woodward's heart. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Woodward Two called me into conference 
yesterday. Ostensibly, it was official business 
regarding some shipping of machinery to 
Mars. But he was really sounding me out. 
Luckily, I had crammed, on Denton Two's 



EXTRA 

notes and so I could answer most of the pry- 
ing questions he asked me. But I'm con- 
vinced I might have tripped up a few times. 
If I did, then Woodward Two is aware that 
there's been a slow infiltration of high of- 
ficials from Earth One. How he began to sus- 
pect, I don't know, unless various members 
of his Cabinet slipped up, acted in ways 
which did not jibe with the actions of their 
duplicates whom they canceled out. 

"It wouldn't have taken much, for I'm cer- 
tain Woodward Two lives in deadly fear that 
somehow Earth I will discover a secret he 
must have taken pains to keep to himself, 
that people of Earth One can cancel out their 
duplicates of Earth Two. But if he is sus- 
picious, what will we do?" 

Woodward One sat down, throwing his 
head back against the chair, closing his eyes 
wearily. A long hard trip, first from Earth 
One, then across the continent, afraid to draw 
a deep breath or act naturally for fear some- 
one would recognize him. And had he made 
that trip, had he, indeed, seen the completion 
of all those other plans, only to realize finally 
that Woodward Two was in a position that 
would enable him to turn off the fire under 
the boiling pot? 

"Bob, what plans have you made for me 
to exchange places with Woodward?" he 
said heavily. 

"A house party here, tomorrow night. 
Woodward will come. Also a half hundred 
other people, many of them who belong to 
Earth One." 

"Go ahead with those plans, then. We 
can't back out. If we fail we fail. Bob. But 
we mustn't fail. And we won't." 

In his room the next night, Woodward 
could hear from below the sounds of gayety 
— music, the clink of glasses, the laughter of 
men and women. He was dressed for the 
occasion, in tails and white tie. He stood with 
hands straight at his sides, the fingers mov- 
ing nervously. Denton had told him, an hour 
ago, that Woodward Two had arrived. Wood- 
ward One had paced his room, filling with a 
destroying fear. This was fantasy, beyond 
imagination. That he should think of his 
alter-ego as a man to be feared, hated — to 
be destroyed. Yet he must act, 

He had moved two steps toward the door 
when it slowly opened. 

Woodward froze. A beefy man stood on the 
threshold. His eyes widened incredulously 
on Woodward One. For the space of a dozen 
heartbeats the two men stared. Then a half- 



EARTH 95 

scream came from the man's throat. 
"Woodward One!" 

His hand darted to his lips. The hand held 
a whistle. The terrible implication of that 
whistle flooded over Woodward. There were 
plainclothes men in the house, looking for 
Woodward One, and acting under Woodward 
Two's orders. If the whistle blew, it meant 
the end. 

He acted with a desperate speed that would 
never be possible to him again. He leaped 
at the man, grabbed his hand, then dealt him 
such a savagely violent blow along the side 
of the jaw that he fell to his knees and crum- 
pled over onto his back. He closed the door, 
struck the man again, brutally. He worked 
fast. A towel for a gag, strips of sheeting for 
bonds. Then he shoved the unconscious man 
under the bed. 

Tensely he stood at the door, the thrum of 
blood in his temples drowning out whatever 
sounds mught be in the hall. But he took 
a chance, left the room and crept silently 
along, close to the wall. By a back stairs 
route he reached the floor below. Here, 
through portieres, he could see the swirl of 
gayety. He also saw his alter-ego Woodward 
Two. Again came the blind, raw hate, the 
urge to destroy, even as that Woodward had 
wanted to destroy him and his kind. 

But Woodward Two was at the center of a 
laughing, drinking crowd, a crowd which 
was doubtless his consciously planned bul- 
wark. 

Suddenly, he heard a whispering footstep 
from the top of the stairs. A cold shudder 
of fear shook him. He got hold himself, 
knowing what he would have to do — and he 
would have to use all the brassy nerve he 
could summon to the job. He swiftly climbed 
the stairs. 

Halfway up. he stopped. 

"Come here, you bungling fool!" he 
snarled. "You're making enough noise to 
wake the dead." 

A BLUFF. But his only hope of success 
lay in bluffing. 
There was a silence. Then a figure came 
to the stairs, looking down at him. The man 
came down the stairs sidewise, cautiously, 
and when he saw Woodward, he whipped a 
gun from his pocket and trained it on him. 
"You're under arrest!" he snapped. 
Woodward went straight up the stairs, de- 
liberately grabbed the gun and shoved it 
aside. 



N 



STARTLING STORIES 



"You fool!" he stormed. "Who do you 
think I am?" 

The man still held the gun. He brought it 
around swiftly. 

"You might be Woodward One, sir," he 
said, but uncertainty was there. 

Woodward cursed explosively. 

"You see? You see? Already you're fall- 
ing for his trick. Come with me, you idiot." 

He led the man to the floor below, point- 
ing through the portieres. 

"There's Woodward One!" 

"But — but it's impossible, sir!" the man 
said. "He wouldn't walk right out there into 
the middle of the crowd." 

"Wouldn't he?" Woodward laughed harsh- 
ly. "Why not? I left the room for a few 
moments and he simply entered and took 
my place. Now if I go out and claim him to 
be an impostor, he'd have me arrested. I 
wouldn't stand a chance. So the only way 
we can work it is to create some confusion. 
Get your men together — move! And here's 
what I want you to do." 

Woodward talked so rapidly, the man 
hardly had a chance to question the proceed- 
ings. He was convinced at the moment, how- 
ever. Whether he would remain convinced 
was a question, 

But Woodward had his answer to those 
doubts not five minutes later when the con- 
fusion he wanted came. There were six door- 
ways to the ballroom besides the exit door 
into the night outside. Suddenly, almost at 
the same second, flames and smoke shot from 
them, and a swift crackling overrode the 
sounds of merrymaking. 

The music stopped, there was a clattering 
of glasses, the stoppage of voices, and people 
stood rooted, staring at sheets of flame. Then 
there were screams and pandemonium. 

"Fire!" 

The cry was taken up by half a dozen 
throats. Denton and one or two others tried 
to bring order out of the retreat, but it was 
a stampede. Frightened people ran for the 
single exit that was not ablaze. 

Woodward One chose that moment to run 
onto the ballroom. He ran straight for Wood- 
ward Two, who was one of the people trying 
to organize the others into a single file so 
they could leave through the door in the 
quickest possible time. He was shouting an- 
grily. Woodward One was almost on him 
when Woodward Two saw him coming. 

An animalistic scream burst from his cord- 
ed throat. He could have been no more 



terrified if a demon were after him. For 
Woodward One was his demon, his personal 
nemesis. He knew he could not count for 
help on the crazed people around him. His 
hand darted into an inner pocket, came out 
with a vibro-gun. It loosed a flame that was 
like a thin string stretched from the bore of 
the gun to Woodward One's shoulder. 

Woodward smelled his own clothing and 
flesh burning, but he felt no pain beyond a 
sickening numbness through his right side. 

Then somebody blundered past Woodward 
Two, knocked the vibro-gun from his hand. 
And Woodward One scooped it up, and 
lunged toward his duplicate again. 

Woodward Two's face was twisted with 
shock. He turned, ran. He plunged straight 
for the broad, winding staircase that led to 
the upper part of the house. Woodward One 
went after him, panting. His duplicate was 
a man crazed with fear, and Woodward One 
knew, coldly, that if he had been in the same 
position, his emotions would have been the 
same. 

In the upper part of the house, Woodward 
Two ran into a trap. He should have turned 
a ramp to the right and made it to the roof 
and possible escape. Instead, he blundered 
past into a dead-end hallway. 

Woodward One stopped a few feet from 
where his duplicate was plastered against 
the wall. His shoulder was hurting abomin- 
ably. There were the warning signs of dizzi- 
ness and shock. He disregarded them. He 
looked on Woodward Two, and he almost felt 
pity at the high shine of fear in his duplicate's 
eyes. 

'Woodward Two spoke, his voice horrible 
with hate and fear. 

"So this is it?" he said. "And I suppose, 
according to all the laws of logic, that I 
should submit. For though my body disap- 
pears, I will continue to live in you." He was 
panting. "But it's not the same thing, you 
hear me? My ego is mine. It fights for life! 
Arthur — go now. Take yourself back to 
Earth Two and this I promise you: Earth I 
will receive food!" 

WOODWARD ONE moved forward an- 
other slow step. "Arthur, it's too 
late," he said tightly ."You've already pro- 
nounced your own sentence. You wanted 
us to die of famine. As it happens, you of 
Earth Two will die, but much more merci- 
fully. You see, Arthur, once there were six 
old men. . . ." 



EXTRA 

And he told "Woodward Two about his 
"dream." It was a memory the two Wood- 
wards did not share, of course, because the 
Earth that had been duplicated was an Earth 
of two weeks ago. And while Woodward One 
talked, filmy curtains were rushing across his 
vision, his eyes were winking in the tic that 
precedes fainting. He was telling Woodward 
all this — why? Because, he thought, in con- 
tempt for his own weakness, he was trying to 
grasp from somewhere the courage that 
would allow him to destroy — himself. 

"You, Arthur, will return to the hyper- 
space you came from," he went on haltingly. 
"For as nearly as we can figure, Earth Two 
was formed of matter and energy drawn from 
hyper-space, a space lying next to ours, sep- 
arated by one dimension. We know that this 
must be so, because the only source of mate- 
rial to build Earth Two was the asteroids. 
But the asteroids remain. Therefore the en- 
tities must have had the power to draw un- 
tapped reserves of energy from hyper-space, 

"Earth II belongs to hyper-space. It is 
composed of atoms formed of negastrons and 
positrons. Negative matter. Contra-terrene 
matter, which until now has been only hypo- 
thetical. And that contra-terrene matter re- 
quires only the correct pattern of energy to 
throw it off balance, to tumble it off into the 
space it came from. Duplicate objects of nor- 
mal matter can thus cancel out their twins. 
And I, Arthur, contain in my body, the exact 
matrix of force necessary." 

He had talked too much. He had waited 
too long. For the black cloud came ove^his 
mind — and through that cloud he saw a 
streaking figure. Woodward Two. He was a 
blurred shadow. Woodward Two was plung- 
ing under Woodward One's clumsily out- 
stretched arms. 

Woodward Two turned stupidly, holding 
the vibro-gun pointed at the fleeing figure. 
He was thinking, calmly. He was clearly 
conscious of the sucking pain sweeping 
through one side of his body. He was more 
conscious of what Woodward Two's escape 



EARTH 97 

meant. Woodward One, would, of course, die. 
And Woodward Two would grill various 
members of his cabinet, and eventually dis- 
cover which of them came from Earth One. 
He would discover the details of the plot. 
And that would be the end of it. 
Woodward One fired. 

He knew he had missed, of course. He 
couldn't help but miss, when his eyes were 
playing havoc with his muscles and nerves. 
Yet Woodward Two stumbled. 

Incredulous, Woodward One staggered to- 
ward him. It was true. Woodward Two was 
on his knees. He collided with Woodward 
Two. His legs buckled and he fell over the 
wounded man. And in the moment before 
blackness came, he felt the solidity of Wood- 
ward Two vanish, in his place an empty rack 
of clothing which for a moment maintained 
its form. Then the clothing fell in a heap, 
and Woodward One fell across it. And be- 
fore he lost consciousness, he felt a supreme 
moment of gladness. . . . 

He awoke, looking into Denton's anxious 
face. Denton gripped his hand fiercely. 

"We've won, Arthur," he whispered. 
"Those fake fires— I realized what was taking 
place. I came up the stairs just as you fell. 
But you'll be all right." Strong emotion 
surged through his voice. "We've got control 
of the government, Arthur. Mass smuggling 
will be possible, with the people of Earth Two 
none the wiser as to what is going on. Some- 
how we'll smuggle enough food back to Earth 
One, to hold off starvation until everybody 
is brought from Earth One and cancels out 
his duplicate on Earth Two." 

Woodward returned the pressure warmly. 
He relaxed, sighing. 

"And we'll never depend on Mars again, 
Bob. We'll have an extra Earth, a planet 
suitable for agriculture. That's where our 
food will come from." His voice turned grim 
with satisfaction, and his glance went up- 
ward, as if seeking out the red planet. 

"Then we'll see how they like getting along 
without us," he said. 



The locale of next issue's Captain Future novel will be described in 
THE WORLDS OF TOMORROW, a fascinating illustrated 
special feature which takes you to Sinon, the invader 
world, the Earth's satellite Luna, and — 
the mysterious Dimension X! 



Manly Wade Wellman is at the controls 
this time out and his narrative tells of THE 
SOLAR INVASION, another epic tale of 
space conspiracy in which Curt Newton tan- 
gles with an old foeman, Ul Quorn, who sup- 
posedly was driven into the sun out of con- 
trol many months ago. 

But Ul Quorn escaped, thanks to a com- 
bination of ingenuity and luck and. after an 
appropriate period, spent nursing his wounds 
and rebuilding his pirate crew, is back in full 
operation. The fust warning Terreans have 
of his return is when the moon vanishes — 
and apparently Curt Newton and the Future- 
men with it. 

By this time it is almost too late — or would 
be if Captain Future had not managed to 
evade destruction by a fluke. After this 
terrestrial Pearl Harbor, it is warfare to the 
death, with the very existence of the entire 
Solar System at stake. 

This Captain Future novel has all the ele- 
ments that go to make up a great science fic- 
tion story! 

With it is running a distinguished Hall of 
Fame Classic — a story which, written almost 
a decade and a half before the atomic bomb, 
foretold such an instrument of wholesale 
destruction. 

It is AFTER ARMAGEDDON, a truly bril- 
liant novelet by Francis Flagg, one of the 
ablest scientifictioneers who ever lived and — 
alas — died too soon. 

There will be short stories to match these 
two major achievements as well as the usual 
departments. Among them, of course, will 
be that lurking place of the old Space Dog 
since time immemorial, THE ETHER VI- 
BRATES. 

Our next issue should be one to remember 
happily long after it is read! 



THE ETHER VIBRATES 

( Continued from page 6} 



ALL right, Snaggle old tooth. Drag the 
Xeno and the mail ticker inside the lead 
screens. We don't want any of the atomic 
chain fissions our readers may have initiated 
to vaporize the entire ship. And before the 
Sarge runs for cover, thanks, readers, for 
getting in so many letters so promptly. It 
constituted the biggest and best showing 
ever. Which should end the amenities for 
this issue, if not for all time. The Sarge is 
in battle dress, so bring 'em on, Froggie, 
bring 'em on! 

The first letter is the explosive (or is 
it?) result of an innocent little query ye 
Sarite voiced in the Fall, 1945, issue. All he 



asked what "What is Pascagoula?" and, well, 
see for yourselves, pee-lots and astroga- 
trixes. 

WHAT PASCAGOULA IS 

by Ray Corley 

Dear Sarge: I'se back again. Yep, it's me— the sot 
from the Deep South. 

Saw my tetier in the latest issue. Foamed at the 
mouth and sat down to work on this missive. Let us 

Quote: "WHAT IS PASCAGOULA?" Unquote. 
Answer: Pascagoula is a small shipbuilding town 
about 42 miles from Mobile, Ala. WHAT! Where is 
Mobile? 'Sno use. No one can teach you anything 
about our good Ol' Mother Earth. You're too busy 
guzzling Xeno. 

VALLEY OF THE FLAME— An excellent story which 
demands a sequel. Pics (By Donnel?) were above 
par for her. but still fall far below the standered set 
by Orban, and even Mnrchioni. 

TWELVE HOURS TO LIVE— No good! The writing 
was excellent, the style was the same— everything was 
alright except the last few paragraphs. But they 
stank, and ruined the rest of the story. Not that the 
writing was bad. but it was where he ended the story. 
I will wonder to the end of my days whether David 
Grant got out of the fix he and his wife were in. 

SHADOW OVER VENUS — Oh, I guess it was al- 
right, but I hate to admit that one of Long's stories is 

THE DARK ANGEL has been rehashed so many 
times that It failed to be interesting. 

THE ETHER VIBRATES— I repeat. WHERE IN THE 
H. . . IS JOE KENNEDY? It has been three Issues 
which do not seem the same without him. Oh well. 
I must be brave. 

A terrible mistake has been made. And when I say 
terrible I mean it. A year-old letter which I wrote 
about IRON MEN and didn't have the nerve to mail, 
has been mailed. Pray God. I hope you don't print It 
In fact I plead with you. Don't print it! 

Now for a story by me. Walt. Sarge. don't drown 
yourself in the Xeno. This will not be too bad (You 

Ye Sarge spat a mouthful of powerful acid (Xeno) 
out the spaceship door. It fell Earthward, burning 
the air as It went. There was a terrific explosion 
which made the atom bomb sound like a cap pistol. 
The Xeno had struck the earth. The explosion wrecked 
the wofkl. killing all the people except one — me. 

I climbed into my space rocket and sped skyward. 
I was out for vengeance. Not because my poor old 
pop was blo wn u p— no ! It was because my only 
copy or THE ETERNAL NOW was destroyed. GRRRRR! 

An outbreak of sounds i 



■ ship. Ye 



burg plant. A bulFet sped from my atomic pistol. 
blew ye Sarge to fine particles which would never 
write foul poetry about me. My revenge was com- 
plete. 

There. Sarge. How'd you like that. Wha? He's 
fainted.— 46 E. 24th St.. Bayonne, N. J. 



Upon recov'ring from our ! 
And feeling not a bit the worse 
We undertake Cor ley's undoin' 
By seeking our revenge in verse. 

The pics for Valley of the Flame 
Were not by sister Donnel done 
Rather, to your eternal shame, 
Our Wilbur Thomas was the one. 

So now we'll don our festive rayon 
And dance ourselves a red-hot hula 
All the while that we are Bayonne 
To good old, tasty Pascagoula. 



THE ETHER 

Oh, ye Sarge's aching little grass shack! 
Roll out the Xeno, Wart-ears. Here is the 
answer to Corley's other question. 

THIS — THIS — IS WHAT'S HAP- 
PENED TO JOE KENNEDY! 

by Joe Kennedy 

Dear Sarge: The tcy blasts whirled across the frozen 
plains of Pluto. Numb with cold, my feeble senses 
reeling. I lashed harder at the scampering team of 
moon pups. They howied in agony as the stinging 
point of the whip ripped across their scaled backs. 

The purple snow was blinding now. I staggered, 
and the sled swerved sharply, overturning In a moun- 
tainous heap of snowflakes. T choked, gasped for 
breath. The moon pups, freed from the reins, were 
dashing away- Their barking faded in the distance, 
and they were swallowed into the storm. 

I was alone .... alone in the frozen wasteland of 
Pluto, without food or shelter, alone U\ the fiercest 



blizzard ever known in the history of the barren ninth 
planet. Death stared me In the face. Death to the 
right of me. death to the left of me. Death up. down, 
across, sideways. Never more to see the green fields, 
the spawning cities of Mother Earth. Twas moat 
unnerving. 
In ten minutes I was frozen stiff. 
The body was never found, either. 
Being a modest chap by nature. I won't request 
that a national holiday be declared to celebrate my 
return to the columns of dear old Startling. A simple 
21-gun salute will suffice. „ 
I bet this is the only letter you receive that doesnl 
mention the fact that, the cover to the contrary. Clark 
Ashton Smith didn't write "Twelve Hours to Live . 
The announcement that CAS will appear In next 
Issue's Mall of Fame was welcome news. tho. I al- 
ways read the HoF first and enjoyed the Williamson 
story tremendously. Shades of Frank Stockton, and 
are there any ladies or tigers In the audience? 

The return of Startling and TWS to bi-monthly 
schedule was another pleasant surprise. Three 
months between each issue was far too long to wait. 
Every other month Is more like it . . . 

Leave us meander on to the Ether Vibrates. Lieut 
Williamson, D. Charles. Millard Grimes. Harold 
Cheney. Lin Carter, and a few other people wrote 
some very readable letters. Mrs- Palsy Martin's letter 
was Just one o' them lhar things that pop up every 
now and then. The Sarge's answer was a minor 
masterpiece of diplomacy. 

Ah. people continue to squander reruns and rehms 
of paper caricaturing the Old Space Dog. Mason 
was responsible for that— uh— thing on page 5, he's 
in no position to criticize Startlirtfl's art Tskl 

The great American pastime seems to be ferreting 
out scientific flaws in the stories. Irwin Friedman 
has started something. I quote: "How could a blow 
on her helmet knock Joan unconsciousness unless it 
went through the helmet? I think they would make 
them stronger than that . . -" End of quotation. 

Well, frankly, our own skepticism is aroused. In 
the interests of science. Irv. would you consent to a 
little experiment? Come around sometime in a flimsy 
space helmet, of the type supposedly worn by women 
of the future. Then let me take a crack at you with 
a hefty baseball bat. If I fail to knock you uncon- 
scious, I'll at least guarantee to give you a bit of a jar. 

But Friedman has discovered my secret. Yes, be- 
lieve it or not, meek, bespectacled Josephus Q. Ken- 
nedy, by day reporter for the Daily Vampire, is 
transformed by night into that dynamic man of 
mystery— the Blue Bern. 

I'll let you birds into my confidence. Y'see, I 
was born on the planet Krypton, several million 
miles distant. When my parents found that the 
planet was doomed to be destroyed, they stuck me 
Inside of an oversized bullet, and shot the infant 
Kennedy to Earth. Just as the stinky little planet 
blew up. 

By the time the projectile arrived, my body was 
fully developed. I Immediately assumed the identity 
of Kennedy, the mild reporter and Btfantasy fan. 
But by night I don my snazzy costume with the 
orange stripes and purple spots, and become that 
dynamic man of mystery— the Blue Bern. 

The Blue Bern wears his orange and purple suit 
under Kennedy's regular street clothes, ready to 



The Bern can grind up siod ;><>i(s with one crunch 
of his mighty molars. He can travel faster than the 
speed of light (I never do this any more, tho, since 
1 discovered that when I travel that fast, my body 
rums into static electricity. I got some nasty shocks 
for awhile before I figured this out) 

As the Blue Bern, I am more powerful than speed- 
ing locomotives, and can toss ten-ton weights around 
like soap bubbles. I have devoted my life to the 
destruction of war, crime, riots, prejudice, vice, 
hatred, evil, injustice, Inhumanity, bestiality and 
excess gastric acidity. 

Hated and feared by the minions of the under- 
world the Blue Bern keeps his true Identity a secret 
by donning an innocent exterior and writing letters 
to Startling Stories every couple years. For a nom- 
inal sum. the Bern will be glad to endorse shaving 
cream, cigarettes, toothpaste, underwear, or what 
have you. Kiddies under ten desiring my autograph 
be sure to enclose one dollar in three-cent stamps, 
plus fifty cents cash, to cover wear and tear on the 
fountain pen. 

Of course I know I can trust you chaps to keep 
this a secret. It is told to you in the strictest con- 
fidence. 

Ah, It might as well be spring. Everywhere, amidst 
the snowdrifts, posies are budding, robins are chirp- 
ing, little rabbits are rushing around making more 
little rabbits. And The Ether Vibrates reflects these 
trends, and is overflowing with poetry. Hrrrapf — I, 
too. have written a verse or two: 

What fortunate creatures, the grulzaks. 
They're never bothered with Income taks; 
Each Martian gal has a lovely figure, 
And Startltng's now 16 pages bigure. 

Th* truth (give heed— this is no lb 

Is that the area of a circle is equal to the 

radius squared times pi, 
Apple, pumpkin, lemon merangue, and mince — 
Start'.iny costs but fifteen cince. 

Methinks this should hold you for the time being. 
Will be seeing you on the next trip around the 
System. — 84 Baker Avenue, Dover. New Jersey. 

Egad! Snaggie old tooth, more poetry! 
Drag out the thesaurus, drag out the rhym- 
ing dictionary, drag out the Xeno, drag out 
ye Sarge! Odzooks! ! ! 

Alackaday, here goes the terror of the 
spaceways, humming a plaintive little dirge 
as he tears the hair from his deltoid cover- 
ings. It goes, "Why didn't Kennedy stay in 
retirement, why didn't Kennedy stay in re- 
tirement", , , . and so on. It can be sung 
to the tune of "John Brown had a little en- 
gine" if anyone cares to use it in his bubble- 
bath. No, Frogeyes, you don't pour a bub- 
blebath with the gum of the same- name. 
That's sticky! In fact, it sticks in spades. 
But, once again, here goes. . . . 

In speaking of those "spawning" cities 
Which Kennedy makes sound so fecund 
Whoever -thought he'd steal, my pretties 
From Oscar Hammer stein the Second? 

It may be spring for Kennedy 

But o'er the world icicles bloom 

For when he sings a threnody 

Cold dirges sound their oompah-boom! 

Blue Bern a-flashing through the skies 
Or grulzak grazing in sweet clover 
When Kennedy doth poetize 
Ye Sarge might just as well roll over. 



100 



STARTLING STORIES 



With which our sonnet nears its appointed 
conclusion 

And this old Space Dog is stepping out for 
a quick transfusion. 

COLUMBUS DISCOVERS BERCEY 

by Jacqueline Grenier 

Dear Serge: You rosy be rather startled by this 
letter, though I suppose you very rarely are in said 
state. I'm afraid that I'll have to write in English 
as I am unfamiliar with the language of the planets. 
Though I am a student of the Chinese language, it 

dije-ii! ! : ■ n iding the 

letters your saletites (Hud? What are thay? 38) 
write you. 

Now i as to my motives — I have two, neither ad- 
verse, one a defense and one a compliment. The 
defense is for your artists. Please, people, don't look 
at the iuiistratloTis in that tone of voice. Pity the 
poor artist— doesn't anyone ever say anything good 
about him? Your people don't know what lucky 
Chaps they are, at least you haven't come up with 
an abstraction or a painting by Salvador Dall. Praise 
Allah! 

As to the other motive — I think the science -fiction 
welters have remarkable foresight. I'm sure that 
sometime in the fuliire your stories .will be classified 
as history instead of fiction. However, -your readers 
five in the future. They are not only -citizens' ot the 
world, but citizens of the universe. When -the time 
comes for science-fiction to drop the fiction, the fans, 
under their guiding genius. SATURN, will lead the 
Earth. 

Though I am but an Irregular reader of STF, your 
magazine does seem to be one of the heat. That's 



So now the Sarge is going to rule the 
Earth — someday. Brush up my swallowtail 
trousers, Froggie, and shake out the Jovian 
mothballs. They're powerful little lepidop- 
tera repellents. We'll have to put up more 
of a front. Wart-ears, get busy rigging some 
tri- dimensional placards announcing the 
great event. No, Snaggletooth, stand by for 
Xeno. 

And as for you, Jacqueline, thanks, thanks 
a lot. 

ANOTHER COLUMBIAN 
by Millard Grimes 

Dear Sarge: Congratulations. 

(1) For going M monthly 

(2) For publishing some good short* for a change 

(3) For having such good coven lately 

(■!) For going oack to having 114 pages and there- 
fore a longer Tef 

Bnuff of that 
March Ish of SS 
very good. Why don't Vou give prizes for the best 
letters. Free Issues of S3 or TWS or something like 
that. 

Usually your shorts (Including the Hall of Fame) 
are pretty T>ad. This issue was an exception. Long's 
tale was best of the shorts, the others .following m 
their order on the contents page. Air were good. 



sf mags. If any fans can help me please do so. 
By the way. Sarge, when is Cap Future "coming back 
out? Please let it. 



copy winging yonr way. 

And everybody remember I want old sf mags. 
When I say old I mean before 1943— 1$07 Tenth 
Street, Cohtmbu*. Georgia. 



Thanks again. Is this epidemic of Sargeo- 
philia confined only to the varibus Colum- 
buses in the fend? According to recent 
newsavislons ye Sarge has received, the 
drivers of all- thfe other buses are on strike. 
Well, perhaps it wlU spread. It had better. 
This looks like a lulu coming up. Even 'the 
visatape is smoking. 

THAT STORM LAKE SIMOON 
IS BACK 

by David Olson 

My dear Mr. — ulp ! — I mean Seraeant Saturn: Per- 
haps you.' remember me, but lust in ease your Irre- 
sponsible guzzling of mat DjeooeeivablV potent Blixer. 
Xeno. has at last obscured that lonely cell, I shall 
refresh yournnemory. I wrote you a nice kind let- 
ter a few issues a>ack ie real masterpiece Or sumpln ) 
In which I very tactfully pointed out the remarkable 
resemblance jjetween a certain fellow on the fall 
Issue's cover'and a famous gentleman named Colonna. 
No doubt *low that 1 have refreshed yodl'memory 
you rem emu er me. No doubt. But even "if you don r l 
it really -tloesn't make any diftereilce, 

"-- t letter I wrote , it with the hope 
a lew purposes I had in mind. 



When I wrote fitft ._ 
it might carry through a 

I wrote It sarcastically because I felt the cover to 
which I referred rated nothing but sarcasm; I wrote 
It in a rather adolescent and sillv vein because I 
wanted to see ift in print; and I wrote It to STAR- 
TLING because I believed STARTLING, of all the 
stf magazines I could think of off hand, needed and 
cjaserved cover improvement the moat. I still think 

I am, as you may have guessed, on a crusade for 
better science fiction covers. There are quite a few 
fans, I think, who would like better cover*-4n faot, 
I think every re.ider would appreciate improvement. 
It Is not Bergey's painting ability thai is inferior- 
he seems to tie »b]e to present his subjects with el- 
most photographic detail— it is his utterly asmlrie 
choice of subjects. 

Not only do they seem to lack any connection, or 
valid connection, with the story, but they are also 
very laughable in overall effect. I can't conceive 
how anyone could dream, up those concoctions. Take 
the cover on -the March issue for instance,' 

The first thing that meets the eye. naturally. Is 
Alice Fay "telling humorous anecdotes to a purple 

fi^nltn who seems quite shocked at the whole thing, 
ctn tell he is shocked by the way his mid-section 
has elongated. Gremlins always do that when they 
are shocked. In the lower left hand corner we have 
another gremlin, the father no doubt, who seems 
Irked at being left out of the Joke. 

I can tell he is irked by the way his eyes are 
bulging and his teeth are straining toward the iiorl* 
zontal. Gremlins always do that when they are irked. 
Directly above the papa gremlin we have Uncle Cus, 
who has Just tasted something extremely baa. I can 
toll he has tasted something bad by the way his 
mouth has naturally assumed the gargling position. 
Gremlins always do that when they taste something 
extremely bad. 

Then, through a process of elimination, wa come 
to serious-minded Meat-face who thinks Jokes are 
very undignified, and to show his Indignation has 
lorn his cute blue shirt and assumed the stance or 
the immortal Casey at the throttle. It no doubt fills 
bis simple, heart with happiness to pretend be Is 
running a train. And then, after rooking at this 
happy little scene we finally come to the word 
STARTLING blazened in flaming letters across our 
view. And we must admit, wearily, that it certainly 

igh Is too much, so I 
T come to "Valley of 
the Flame" by Keith Hammond. This is good. This 
undoubtedly is the best thing I have ever read lit 
STARTLING. Parts of It are as good as something 
by Merrltt. especially of Raft's first meeting with the 
mad king and his experiences in the Garden of 
Kham. Immediately after the Uncling of Craddock. 
however, the tiling degenerates in power. 
There are many errors in logic, such as Raffs fall* 



ure to use (lie amulet to speed up his metabolism 
and thus get him to the flame ahead of Parror alter 
they had discovered how to control the amulet, 
which lessened the worth of the finishing chapters. 
The description of his fight with Parror, though, 
almost made up for it. If there had been no errors, 
I would rate the story as a classic. 

I will not comment on the "Shadow Over Venus" 
because I did not read it. Marchioni's illustration 
soured me on It. By the way. why don't you give 
that boy a pea or brush or something (o work with? 
He doesn't seem to be able to turn out very good 
work with his finger. 

As for the Hall of Fame Story. "Twelve Hours to 
Live", where did you And It? Not only Is the writing 
stiff, the characterization lousy, the conversation un- 
real, but the plot or theme is not even original. I 
am sure you yourself must remember a story you 
read away back In the grades, called "The Lady or 
the Tiger' or something? Tell me if you think the 
main idea is along the same line. And to think that 
this is the work of the man who wrote "The Legion 
of Space". "The Legion of Time", etc- Where did 
you find it — in some other magazine's ash can? 

Though "Twelve Hours to Live" left a bad taste in 
my mouth, "The Dark Angel" by Henry Kuttner, 
sort of relieved it. Kuttner. as usual, is good. This 
story and the excellent lead novel make this Issue 
of STARTLING worth remembering. Let's hope you 
can do as well In the future. 

This letter would not be complete If I did not re- 
mark on THE ETHER VIBRATES. My comments 
shall be addressed to one in particular— D. Charles. 
To him I say, "Pooey" and "Splfvssk!" 

In ending this, dear Sarge. I would like to say 
that if the March Issue would have had a good 
cover, It would have been the best stf mag out! 
Smile. Sarge. you're being complimented. — 429 Col- 
lege Avenue, Storm Lake, Iowa. 

With the back of the Olson hand, no doubt. 
Oh, well. What the Sarge would like to 
know is the connection, if any, between Da- 
vid Olson and D. Charles. Umbilical, per- 
haps — since they both write from the same 
address. 

As for the selection of cover topics, neither 
ye Sarge nor Bergey is guilty. Let it remain 
a mystery to the fans. They seem to get most 
of the fun out of it, so why spoil a good thing? 
No comment on the rest of your beefs, 
David. What is there to say? Besides, well, 
here is another opinion. 



THE OTHER SIDE 
by Mrs. A. Schmidt 



been able to pass up a magazine stand since without 
stopping to see what 1 could And. 

I've been very much amused with the gripes (they 
are mostly that) in The Ether Vibrates, except for 
one thing — and now I'm going to tell you about it. 
There seems to be an ace-old gripe about the un- 
deidressed heroine, and It's getting under my skin. 
Can't you you tell them that fundamentally this is 
what attracts the reader to the magazine? Or Is that 
one of your professional secrets? 

True, there are a fetu individuals who would rather 
look at a robot than a pretty girl. But thank good- 
ness they are rare. It would be a pretty dull world. 

As for the stories. I enjoy them all or I wouldn't 
read the magazine. The illustrations are well drawn, 
but your artists should get together with the authors. 
Sometimes they don't correspond. Please give us 
more of Hamilton and Kuttner. They're strictly my 
favorites.— 935 South Downey Road, Los Angeles 23, 
California. 

Bless you, my dear. Why should the Sarge 
tell them when you've done it for him so 
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102 STARTLING STORIES 

nicely? It would be a dull world without the 
pretty ones. As for our authors' and illustra- 
tors' correspondence, we do not tamper with 
the United States mails. 

ALAS, POOR BERCEY! 

by Rick Sneary 



Dear Sarge: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH 1 At last Bergey 
has gone to far even for me. The utter sickening 
horror of it all Is enough to make a fan gag. The 
March cover will go down with me as the worst 
I. I have ever had the misfortune to gaze upon. 



oooge! Look at her eyes. 

This is the first BEH (Bug-eyed-heroin) I have seen. 
(And I pray to Foo the last!) And look at that 
mouth! What Is she going to do, bite her way out? 
And the darkly -shaded cheeks Just aren't natural. 
Why I'd rather go out with that Cary Grant type 
hero than that horrid looking heroine. And what Is 
more she isn't at all like Hammond described Janissa. 
(Chapter 4, page 27.) Why didn't you let Bergey read 
this instead of the last part of the story???? 

Valley of the Flame was very good, but not out- 
standing. I think it was better than the Cap. Future 
tale tho. Not quite Us many mistakes. By the way, 
looking back over my flies. I see you haven't had a 
time-travel novel for Quite a wile* How about look- 
ing for one. How about □ chase thru time. You 
know the kind. 

Hero trails v ill ain back through time. Every time 
he gets near the villain goes back to another time. 
Hero is cought by villain's friends, but is helped 
excape by strange heroine, later falls madly in love 
with her. How about Kuttner, he could do a swell 
Job, and the plot isnt worn to thin. 

Speaking of Kuttner, his The Dark Angel was the 
best of the shorts. Tho it really didn't belong to a 
mag I enjoyed it very much. Get anything this fel- 
low does, under any of his numerous names. 

As always, I dfdrit like the Hall of Fume story. 
For one thing. I hate stories that leave me wonder- 
ing what happened. And another thing, the answer Is 
so simple- All he would have to have done is to 
pull one of the chests off about an eighth of a mile. 
Then torn hts clothes into strips and made them into 
a rope. Tied the end around the top of one of the 
chests and walked to the end of the rope, pulled It 
and opened the chest at a safe distance. If the fungus 
was in it he could have beaten it before it reached 
him. Some heroes aren't so smart. 

Lionel Inman's letter almost rated a story heading. 
It was a wery witty bit of wondering. Nice. First 
time I have beard of Oscar. Lion is pretty smart, 
found an error that I missed. I'd tell you what they 
were, but that's old stuff. 

Well I guess that is all this trip. It sure is swell 
news that SS and TWS are going bi-monthly again. 
You'll keep me busy writing you.— 2962 Sania Ana 
Street, South Gate, CaHfornfo. 

Rick, old pee-lot, correcting your spelling 
is a job that will tip ye Sarge over the brink 
of the screaming meemies. Do you type with 
mittens on all year round or only during 
the winter months? Well, we can dream, 
can't we, Wart-ears? 

NOW BERCEY'S A BIRD! 

by Travis Willis 

El Sarge: Altho' I've been reading Startlitia for four 
years, (his is the first letter I've pounded out, so be 
ktnda lenient, wiilya? I. like many other STFans, am 
partially human if not completely so. Ah, met 

And now to (he mag itself. Cover: Anybody know 
where I can find an artist? Honest, Sarge, why 
don'tcha toss this bird Bergey out to the BEMs. An 
.iviisr. n iy kin; i , ;,;■;, ] Siorit.';:; 

VALLEY OF THE FLAME: a good idea, not very 
well carried out I always like a time -warp tale, 
but this one turned sour. 



SHADOW OVER VENUS: this theme has been 
used before, but, even tho I shouldn't have I liked it 
The gule is an animal after my own heart 

TWELVE HOURS TO LIVE: I love these abrupt, 
surprise endings. They always leave one speculating 
as to the fate of the hero and heroine. Hmmm! 
wonder how Dave Grant got out of that one? 

THE DARK ANGEL: hooray! Bravo! Excellent! 
Mutants attract me for some strange reason. Who 
knows, there may be one peeking over your shoulder 
as you read this. 
As to the inside illo's, I've got no comment They 

Where does this guy 
™™ v» oir, passing cracks like that. It's Ye 
Sarge s feeble attempts to be coherent while under 
the influence of Xeno that attracts attention to the 
Readers section, thereby bringing in more letters. 

I won't rate the letters this fsh. There was nothing 
particularly interesting— that is, not in my opinion. 
, " therms re any [ ans m Orange or Volusia Coun- 
at the following address.— 
una Beach, Florida. 

Thanks, Travis. Is Bergey taking it this 
time! Hope you get fanned plenty in that 
Florida heat. 

Oh my Uranian artichokes, Snaggie old 
tooth! It must be spring. Here comes anoth- 
er ipecactic dose of poetry. 

THESE SCANT1ES DON'T SCAN 

by Harold Maxwell 

Dear Sarge: 

Pay no heed to the clacking mongkeez 

Who sneer at the BEMS on your kivers. 

A pest on the breed, they're a pack of wrong gees. 

With Xeno-hypertrophied livers. 

Pay no heed to those haggling twitters 

Who tear poor old Bergey apart 

A plague on all of the snaggle -toothed critters 

Who just don't appreciate ART: 

Who are these warts who vlliify clever 

Guys who draw gats In their scanties? 

I'll fix those cricks, yes I will, if I ever 

Discover what bomb sank Atlantis. 

Or let me discover a man-eating fungus, 

Or a ray that disintegrates livers, 

And then, Sarge, we'll fix those wart-eared punk ers 

Who've the nerve to blast S.S. kivers. 

It should be obvious even to a nit. and doubly so 
to a nit-wit, that the cover of Startlino Stories must 
be STARTLING. And what can startle people In 
these days of Atomic Bombs and radar communica- 
tion with the (noon? Obviously, only a good old- 
fashioned BEM. 

I have a suggestion, however. Why not leave the 
cover Just plain blank? That would siartle pipple, 
plenty. You could tlUe it "Life In The Void'', or 
The Fourth Dimension", or "Time Marches Back- 
wards, or "Bergey Couldn't Make It." 

Or "Close-up of Art-Critics Brain", or "Sorry, It 
Went Down the Drain", or "Come Back Next Month." 
I mean, possibilities are practically endless. With 
another shot of Xeno I could go on for hours. 

Speaking of Xeno. A barrel of same to Henry 
Kuttner for the surprise ending (o "The Dark Angel", 
in your March issue. O. Henry must be turning over 
in his gravy, just itching with jealousy. It was a 
swell yam, best in a good issue.— 2581 Tyrone St., 
Flint 4. Michigan. 

He who has reached the age of indiscretion 
And looks at pictured scanties sans a quiver 
Has learned no matter how high man's pro- 
fession 

That life in chief depends upon the liver. 

Howe'er Childe Harolde Maxwell's jeremiad 
In hot defense of Bergey's luscious torsos 
Is liverish as if with onions friad 
Inspiring "oh, my words!" or even "more- 
sos." 



What matter if he has a deep psychosis? 
What matter if his cerebrum be muscular? 
He never will be burdened with cirrhosis 
As long as through his veins flows blood 
corpuscular. 

We'll raise our banner 'gainst those with 
allergy 

Toward that great trio, Babe and 13 EM and 
Bergey! 

Shades of Petrarch, Frogeyes, that one 
finished ye Sarge — or will if you don't tap 
another barrel. And if the readers object to 
this old Space Dog's doggerel, let them 
cease writing him verse (it takes poetic li- 
cence to call it poetry). Like a spavined 
and swaybacked old fire horse, the Sarge 
cannot resist responding. In fact, he is virtu- 
ally the only fire horse in all the universe 
who ever answered an alarm on spondaic 
feet 

A TOOT FROM GABRIEL 

by Howard Gabriel 

Dear Sarge: Keith Hammond has the strangest style 
of writing I have yet come across. It has a sort of 
liquid quality In It. It's loo had though, that he used 
a mediocre plot. Also, it was too descriptive fo hold 
my interest all the way through. The story how- 
ever was fairly good; mainly because of the manner 
in which It was written. 
All is forgiven though. Sarjje. The illustrations for 



the novel i 



■ very good. 



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STARTLING STORIES 



time. Especially the one on page 19. 

I'm glad to hear that S. S. is going bi-monthly. 
Any chance o£ some more novels like the ones from 
'39- '42 years. Is T.W.S. I 
The latest lsh. of T.W.S. 
two. 

It has to come, I guess. The cover. Flashy colors, 
nicely drawn figures, ('Specially the girt a.) But 
her face, man! Suffering Satjirnfan Cave bears! 
From the expression on her face you'd think she 
had just seen M^xMoiii's illustration for: SHADOW 
OVER VENUS, Hie poorest story In the lsh. It wasn't 
too bad though. 

Kuttner. I adore you! Wotta story. It was the 
best tn the ish. by far. 

Williamson, I hate you. After reading the story 
with baited breath, you leave the ending up to ust 
May you have Marchionl Illustrate your next story. 
If you've ever read "The Lady and the Tiger", you 
will And that they are amazingly alike. And since 
"The Lady and the Ttger" was written before Wil- 
liamson's little yarn — wonder who copied the other? 

Polton Cross is one of my favorite short story 
writers. I hope his novel is as good. 

Lin Carter's little poem was very amusing. D. 
Charles had a good letter, also. Wattsamatta? None 
of the "big shots" writing in lately— 1450 East 19th 
Street, Brooklyn 30, New York. 

Thanks for the mixed salad, Howard, old 
pee-lot. So you think Williamson was merely 
copying the late Frank R. Stockton! Think 
again—and you may change your mind, Yes, 
kiwi, TWS is also bi-monthly now. And ye 
Sarge resents that crack about the alleged 
"big shots." Look back a couple of years, 
and you'll find a totally different crop of let- 
ter hacks from those now operating. Letter 
hacks come and go, but ye Sarge goes on 
forever! Long may he rave! 

SHE HANGS IN THE AIR 

by Patricia J. Bowling 



but the story Is left hangtng In mid- 

pened when Captain David Grant opened the silver 
chest? Is it his wife or the red fungus? I certainly 
couldn't tell from the story. 

I will appreciate greatly your giving me the ending 
or at least explaining It. 1 11 have no peace of mind 
until I know. — 137 Bads Avenue, San Antonio 4, 

Farewell peace of mind, Mrs. Bowling. 
Who knows? In fact, that was the whole 
idea of the story — and not bad for an occa- 
sional change from the usual neatly packaged 
yarn. Perhaps there was a cold In the chest. 
Quick. Frogeyes, the Xeno. Ye Sarge is 
sinking fast. 

SAUTED SLIGHTLY 

by Michael Cook 

Dear Sarge: Here goes for my first effort In wrlt- 



For that Sirius crack, Kiwi Cook, you rate 
one gallon of Xeno vinegar, famed for its 
corrosive effect on battleship steel, diamonds 
and the lining of the human stomach. Pre- 
pare to pour, Snaggletooth, the moment we 
nab him. 

ALL THIS AND ELSNER TOO? 

by Henry Eisner 

Dear Sarge: I know this is a little late for the 
next ETHER YJBRATES. but I'm writing not to see 
my name in print, but to give you and Hank Kuttner 
(Hammond) my siiictrtNi ^Gii..;raiulntlona tor VAL- 
LEY OF THE FLAME. I don't think I'tn using extrava- 
gant language when I say that this story was com- 
parable to A. Merrill at his best. 

It was certainly one of STARTLING 'S few classic 
tales, and will get my vote for one of the best stories 
of '46, regardless of the stories you or other maga- 
zines print In the forthcoming months. I thought 
SWORD OF TOMORROW whs excellent, but VALLEY 
OF THE FLAME was many times better. Not often 
can a scienllncUon story come so close to true liter- 
ary beauty. 

Although the plot and action of the story were very 
well planned and carried out, It was most certainly 
this superb wrRing which mads it so enjoyable. 
The utterly alien atmosphere, weird but somehow 
strangely beautiful, together with such vivid descrip- 
tive passages are surpassed, as I said before, only 
by some of Merrllt's masterpieces. 

Thanks again for bringing us such a slory; I only 
hope ell of your readers enjoyed It as thoroughly as 
I did.— 136IS Cedar Grove, Detroit 3, Michigan. 

Thanks, Henry, we thought so too. Ye 
Sarge would hate to hear you when you have 
a gripe on — with that vocabulary. Zounds! 

AND ON THE OTHER HAND 

by Robert Davidson 

Dear Sarge: Well STARTLING STORIES can't be 
good all the time. "Valley of The Flame" goes into 
my lowest category along with "The Kid From Mars" 
and "Wings of I cams". Boy was this story louseeeey! 

Honest. Sarge, after reading that Junk I thought I 
had Just come out of a two -ti our botany class with 
a very boring professor Right now I think I know 
more about the Amazon country than the natives. 
I'll never eat another green vegetable. 

The pics for the novel were good, especially the 
full pager. Marchionl loused up the rest of the Illus- 
trations as usual, but as I said S.S. can't be good 
all the time. 

On the other hand. Kuttner's little masterpiece, 
"The Dark Angel", rings the bell this lsh. I recom- 
mend it for the Hall of Fame to be reprinted around 
1956. The current H. of F. short was good. IH take 
a guess that he opened the one with Ms wife In it. 
The only reason for saying this is that most STF 
stories end happily with the hero paddling 1.000 miles 
to shore, of course encountering assorted monsters 
en route. 

F. B. Long's short was just average filler. 



Ye Gods of Mars, can that "be the cover of S.S.T 
It la, but, oh, Bergey, please keep to the standard 
of the winter issue cover. IT WAS GOOD. 



little fantastic. 



How about printing some i 

and time travel stories, getting Pete Manx and Holly- 
wood On The Moon back In T.W.S. and getting back 
to normal size.— 1470 East 19th Street, Brooklyn 30, 



It's free country, Bobby, old Betelgeuseart 
But why not write us again — say, after you 
graduate? Okay? 



THE PENDULUM VIBRATES 
by Leo Alexander 

Dear Set. Saturn: I have before me the remnants 
of the Mar. 5.S. (remnants because my sister has 
just finished reading It). The cover was good until 
I read the story. Page 27. chapter *, third paragraph. 
"Her garments, blue and gold — " is Bergey color 
blind? It also says. "At her waist was a wide belt." 
Please, don't let him draw a thin shoulder strap I 

■'Valley of the Flame"— SUPERB ! (and that's a big 
word.) Tor an antiquarian he has some pretty mod- 
em ideas. More of Hammond. LOTS MORE. 
"Shadow Over Venus"'— nuts! Junk it. 
"Twelve Hours to Live'"— (it first I was a little mad. 
J _I sat there with the saliva dripping from my 



"The Ether Vibrates" — I think Mr. Friedman has 
something. About putting the back cover on the 
front. I mean. Did you notice the beautiful coloring, 
the excitement, the ability of man to control the 
forces of nature in the fire scene on the back cover? 
Wonderful. 

By the way, this Is the first time I've written to 
you. — 736 Btoomfleld St., Hoboken, N. J. 

Well, keep them coming, Pee-lot Alexan- 
der. Your opinions, bizarre though they may 
be are all yours (praise Allah!) and ye Sarge 
has no intention of using coercion. No, you 
may take the pincers out of the heater, Wart- 
ears, he gets a reprieve for liking the Ham- 
mond opus supremus. 

Well, that winds up the Sarge and his mer- 
ry little gremlins for another Xenothon. 
Remember, kids, give us a line on how you'd 
like this job done in the future. This is a 
time of tremendous changes, and even ye 
Sarge is not exempt. So let us know, will 
you? 

— SERGEANT SATURN. 



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BOOK REVIEW 



URANIUM AND ATOMIC POWER, Jack De 
Ment and H. C. Dake, Chemical Publishing Com- 
pany, Inc., Brooklyn, New York, 343 pp. $4.00. 

THE authors of this book on perhaps the 
most spectacular subject in science to- 
day, have done a workmanlike job that 
is not too involved for the layman, and at the 
same time delves deeply enough into the sub- 
ject to interest scientific students and re- 
search workers. 

This book was originally prepared in 1939, 
according to the foreword, and the authors 
and publishers through eight appendices and 
a rather complete bibliography have brought 
their subject matter up to date, climaxing 
their work with an appendix on the atomic 
bomb. 

Naturally a good many of the details con- 
nected with the bomb were shrouded in 
secrecy during the three years in which sci- 
ence, industry, labor and the military forces 
were creating it. However De Ment and 
Dake have succeeded in lifting aside enough 
of the curtain to show us not only the po- 
tential military power, but also the extensive 
field in prospect for industrial development. 

Your reviewer found particularly interest- 
ing the complete and informative chapter on 
the occurrence of uranium minerals in vari- 
ous parts of the world. The average man on 
the street, or sitting back in a comfortable 
armchair, is of the opinion that the incidence 
of these minerals is rather limited. It is there- 
fore extremely surprising to learn that it 
takes eleven pages of the book to list the 
various varieties xjf uranium-bearing miner- 
als, and their locations in parts of the world 
as widely separated as L2ano County, Texas; 
Madagascar, Belgian Congo, Annerod, Nor- 
way: Spruce Pine, North Carolina; Minas 
Gerais, Brazil; Fergana, Russian Turkestan, 
and a score of other places. 

Other fields that are explored carefully, 
and which establish a strong, effective 
groundwork for the researcher in this par- 
ticular science include "The Physics of 
Uranium," "Chemistry of Uranium," "Spe- 
cific Methods in Uranometry," and "Special 
Methods in Uranometry" such as the fluor- 
escent indicators. 

Students are going to be looking for au- 
thentic and far-reaching material in this field, 
and they may well add this book to their li- 
braries as an important contribution to their 
reference files. 

C. S.S. 



REVIEW Of THE 
SCIENCE FICTION 
FAN PUBLICATIONS 

By 

SERGEANT SATURN 



YE SARGE has received a lengthy and 
rather flossily prepared screed from 
the famed ex-fellow- Sarge Forrest J. 
Ackerman of the Los Angeles Science Fan- 
tasy Society announcing the "atabombastic" 
detonation of the Fourth World Science Fic- 
tion Convention in Los Angeles come July 
fourth. 

This is a four-day blow-out complete with 




Kuttner and costume ball. Pacificon chair- 
man is Walter J. Daugherty, and member- 
ship in this all-out gala (we hope) may be 
purchased by forwarding one dollar ($1.00) 
to him at 1305 West Ingraham, Los Angeles 
15. You who can attend, do so with ye 
Sarge's benison. 

For the rest, the fanzine list this month 
is a trifle topheavy with sundry special jobs, 
all of which rate attention and praise. 

Joe Grulzak Kennedy has climbed into the 
front rank of amateur publishers with a finely 
conceived and executed FANTASY RE- 
VIEW. This 50-page pantagruel of a booklet 
contains a chronological report on the year 
1945 in stf, thoughtful studies of books, re- 
print books and professional magazines for 
the same period and a very complete fan poll 
on just about everything to do with your 
(and om) favorite subject. Ye Sarge is 
despatching Joe a hogshead of Xintage Xeno. 

Tom Hadley drops us a line complete with 
RHODE ISLAND ON LOVECRAFT, a col- 
lection of personalia about the late great you- 
know-who nicely arranged by Hadley and 
Donald M. Grant, illustrated by Betty Wells 
Halladay and printed by Will Sykora. A nice 
item for those who worship at the Lovecraft 
shrine. 

Thud on the special- events roster is AF- 
TER TEN YEARS, a tribute to the late Stan- 
ley G. Weinbaum, who died in 1935. Even 
though it is a year late, this is an Interesting 
and tastefully handled job, thanks to its com- 
[T«m page} 




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pliers and publishers, Sam Moskowitz and 
Gerry de la Ree of 9 Bogert Place, West- 
wood, New Jersey. 

Fourth on the list is THE FANEWS PHO- 
TO ALBUM, put out by Walt Dunkelberger, 
the Fargo blimp, which contains, as might be 
expected, candid shots of some thirty-six 
fans, a couple of amusing composographs of 
a "trip to the moon" by Bob Tucker and the 
reproduction (ahem!) of the cover of one of 
our competitors. A very pleasant Christmas 
greeting. 

Perhaps as a result of this rather frenetic 
special activity, the number of A-list fanzines 
has fallen to seven this trip, with only 
PHOENIX and SUNSPOTS among them at 
all familiar. Where, fellows, are ACOLYTE, 
CHANTICLEER, SHANGRI L'AFFAIRES 
and VOM? This is the most miserable show- 
ing yet. Is the Sarge too fearlessly honest 
in his crits to risk sending them to him or 
what? He doesn't intend to change, come 
what may! 

JUPITER, (you forgot to give the address, 
bub!). Editor, Ron Maddox. 3c pVr issue. Pub- 
lished quarterly. 

This new job could stand typographical improve- 
ment Editor Maddox has assembled a fairly notable 
group of contributors, Including Bob Tucker, Joe 
Kennedy, Ken Krueger and Jack Speer. but none Of 
their stuff Is outstanding and the only real Item of 
interester Is an S. F. Quiz that kicked ye Sarge for 
a goal. 

PHOENIX, 5201 Enright Avenue, St. Louis, 
Missouri. A Paragon Publication. Published bi- 
monthly. 5c per copy, six copies 25c. 

A four-page item with cover featuring an open 
letter in support of the Grant-Hadley team by Jay 
Chid sty and an amusing article by Van S pi awn 
anent the difficulties of present-day stf-seekers on the 
radio. Quality, not quantity here. 

SPECULATIONS, 460 Orchard Street, Rahway, 
New Jersey. Editor, George R. Fox. Published 
quarterly, 10c per copy, six copies 50c. 

A new arrival in the New Jersey renaissance, con- 
taining a morbid radio script In which everybody dies, 
an amusing piece by Gene Hunter on overseas fans 
and some chuckles by Sam Moskowitz who reprints 
a collection of postcards he has received in his fanning 
years along with other items. On the whole, a very 
promising new entry. 

THE STAR ROVER, 5201 Enright Avenue, St. 
Louis, Missouri. Editors, Van Splawn and Fritz 
Hoffman. Published irregularly, 5c per copy. 

While we were scratching our head over this one, 
a bit of dandruff drifted to a spot on the title page 
which Informed us that this is the successor to 
PHOENIX, reviewed above. Do teill Anyway, it looks 



Chldsey has entered a poem about a space battle 
that seems to stem directly from some sub-species 
of Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verse" while a 
female who calls herself Alicia has one about a 
winged horse with Stardust in its eyes. It occurred 
u ■ '.■ :i Jili . - ' 1 w.i 

to relieve its suffering. 

SUNSPOTS, 9 Bogert Place, Westwood, New 
Jersey. Editor, Gerry de la Ree. Published ir- 
regularly. Free to contributors. 

Sixth Anniversary Issue and a good, if small one. 
A reprint of a Weinbaum short story and the complete 
Beowulf Poll results for ISMS are high spots. Doris 
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Curlier contributes a poem supposeedly (or purposes 
of horror which backs up James O- B reck en ridge 'a 
articular plaint about the rareness ol true horror In 
fiction ana painting. On the whole, a swell job. 

THE SCIENTIFICTIONIST, 13618 Cedar Grove, 
Detroit 5, Michigan. Editor, Henry Eisner Jr. 
Published irregularly. 10c per copy. Three for 
25c. 

A heavyweight. Among other ponderous features 
Walter Coslet lists just about every soul-body transfer 
ever printed save tor Thome-Smith's "Turnabout" and 
Jerry Shelton's "Devils from Darkonla" and E. Merrill 
Root would revive technocracy, no less. Evan Evans 
winds it all up with what Is listed on the jacket as 
a^'humor short," but it fails to lift the souffle 1 as a 

Finally, just as we were closing up the 
A-list, in came THE ACOLYTE in a rotary 
wrapper that had the Sarge spinning through 
space like a nauseated meteor before he 
finally got it unwound. A couple of hunks 
of the 'zine were torn off in the unbinding 
process, but here is what on what was left 

THE ACOLYTE, 1005 West 35th Place, Los 
Angeles 7, California. Co-editors, F. T. Laney 
St S. D. Russell. Published quarterly. 15c per 
copy 



The healthiest symptom displayed 
of all fanzines, is a worried plaint by I. _. 
Laney lest his raimeochild be slipping (it Isn't). 



He 



out at about one-tenth of a cent per adjective. Verba, 
as in all Lovecraft's works, come higher. Two ded* 
mal codes for classifying slf by Pee-lots Speer and 
Russell take up the bulk of the issue and had the 
Sarge reeling— not on Xeno, either, for once. New 
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Sarge's funnybone. But THE ACOLYTE is still oh 

The B-list packs plenty of quantity this 
time, but quality, save as always for Dunk 
and his FANEWS, is wretchedly low. Illegi- 
bility is suffering from some uncharted hek- 
tographic inflation. Don't ask us why. So 

ASSORTED MUSINGS, 84 Baker Avenue, Dover, 
New Jersey. Editors. Kennedy k Fox. No charge. 
This one-shot has no purpose save to plug the recent 
Newark e<> 11 on Its cover and contains random fan 
jottings within. A Jo-Jo-the-Dogfaced-boy Item. 

FANEWS. 1443 Fourth Avenue South. Fargo. North 
Dakota. Editor Walter Dunkelberger. Published Ir- 
regularly. 2c per copy, 55 copies, $1.00. Still far and 
away the best of all the newspapers for fondom. 

FANT— STORY SHEET. P. O. Box, No. 135, South 
Mills. North Carolina. Editor. Ross Burgess. Published 
Irregularly. No fee. First Issue of what is fondly be- 
lieved to be humorous stuff on a one-pager. Hope 
editor Burgess can get a bit groovier. 

FANT A SCIEN CE FAN. 5201 Enright Avenue. St. 
Louis. Missouri. Editor. Van Splawn. Published 
weekly. Free to contributors. Roll on, Van Splawn, 
— holy cow. how do you do It? Ye Sarge will 



> tho 1 



Neat job. 

FORLO KON, published by Private Kenneth H. 
Bonnell, ASN 39760427. Co. C. 5th Trng Bn. ASFTC, 
Fort Lewis. Washington and printed at 5229 University 
Way. Seattle. First and second Issues of this modest 
little pamphlet contain very short Items anent Action, 
or culled from books, newspapers and radios. Keep 
going. Kiwi Kenneth. 

MERCURY, 548 North Delrose. Wichita 6, Kansas. 
Editor, Telia Streift. Published bi-weekly. 2c per 
copy, 3 for 5c. 6 for 10c. Not a very good cardrine 
after the memorable efforts of Dunkelberger & Krueger. 

PSFS NEWS. 3507 North Suydenham Street, Phila- 
delphia 40. Pennsylvania. Editor, Oswald Train. Pub- 
lished monthly. 10c per copy, G copies 50c, 12 copies 
51.00 Fully documented doings of the bouncing young 
Philadelphia Science Fiction Society, which would 
rate the A-llst if It held a little material of more 
general Interest. 

SLANT ASY, Dorothy, New Jersey. Editor. Algia 
Budrys. Published weekly. 3c per copy. Subscription 
late 2c per copy. Budrys is apparently still in that 



Brook* Company, 332 Staie St, Marshall, Mich. HO 



NEXT ISSUE'S HEADLINERS 



THE SOLAR INVASION 

A Captain Future Novel 

By MANLY WADE WELLMAN 
• 

AFTER ARMAGEDDON 

A Hall of Fame Classic 
By FRANCIS FLAGG 



ABSALOM 

An Amazing Fantasy 

By HENRY KUTTNER 
AND MANY OTHERS! 



larvaic stage when he considers k.nliteratioti with k 
to be konvulstnRly komic. He'll learn. He is also 
(apropos of Phil Wylle's "Blunder") amazed at stf 
in the slicks. Evidently he doesn't read them. Shades 
of Sara Smalll 

THE MARTIAN NEWS-LETTER. 548 North Delrose, 
Wichita 6. Kansas. Edljor. Tells Stretff. Pub- 
lished????? lc per copy. Sloppily hecktoed but rather 
brashly amusing phoney lanewsheet. (Editorial note— 
i . C'!-.! i •■on that Ye Sarge does not sit in 

a swivel chair. Otherwise perfectly accurately— S. S.) 

WITHOUT GLEE, 2S37 San Jose, Alameda. Cali- 
fornia. Editor, Roger Rehm. Published irregularly. 
5c per copy. 3 copies luc. Zany stuff by one of ye 
Sarge's regular tormentors. Jack Cockroft has even 
hecktoed him on the cover, complete with Xeno jug 
and three colors. What next? 

With the idea of giving credit where credit 
is due, ye Sarge is herewith creating a special 
honor roll which will be known as the Z-list 
henceforth. We feel certain that the bulk of 
stf devotees will support our signal new 
award as applied on this page. 



llshed bi-monthly. 25c per copy. 4 copies $1.00. With 
the not-so-taclt support of one of our competitors 
(he contributes an editorial I this magazine preys on 
the credulity of the unbalanced and Illiterate by sup- 
porting all the old phonolas from those who claim 
they know what happened to AtlanUs to visitations 
from the after life in dreams. Piously, we cross our- 

Well, that's it, Kiwis. Unusually good in 
some respects, unusually poor in too many 
others. But at least none of you slaneditors 
have been flirting with the deadly mediocre. 
For which Zoroaster be praised. Keep the 
Sarge fed on fanzines, pee -lots. Next to 
Xeno, he loves them best Which is why he 
rips them to pieces with such loving care. 
So long! 




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IT IS our very definite impression that, 
since he was honorably discharged from 
the Army early last year, Henry Kutt- 
ner has been forging ahead by leaps and 
bounds — and he already had most of the rest 
of the stf field lapped a couple of times. 

In THE DARK WORLD, he steps right up 
into the spot left vacant by the death of the 
revered A. Merritt. Surely no one else has 
shown so masterful a grip on this particular 
sort of high imaginative fantasy. It seems to 
us that he has at all times a clarity which 
was occasionally lacking In Merritt's some- 
what surrealistic prose poems. 

Furthermore, so ingenious is Kuttner that 
he is always able at least to suggest some 
convincing causation for even the most fan- 
tastic of his themes and gadgets. In this re- 
spect, he is almost certainly unmatched. 

But those of you who have already read 
THE DARK WORLD in this issue need no 
editorial puffs as to its virtues. And those 
who haven't will learn for themselves in 
short order that here is a great fantastic 
novel. Meanwhile, the author, in jesting 
spirit, takes time out to explain a little about 
himself. He is usually clearer when explain- 
ing some unearthly happening on a distant 
planet, but it should give you some idea. 
Says the author of THE DARK WORLD: 

This is no time to ask me for my biography. 
The papers say we've just hit radar with the 
Moon — or something like that, anyhow — and I've 
decided to live on a California mountain-top, 
where I can reach up with a long-handled spoon 
and dig off valuable mineral deposits from our 
satellite. I never knew it was so close. 

I've decided against having a swimming-pool, 
though, because I don't want all the water sucked 
up out of it by the Moon's gravitational attrac- 
tion, and I've almost decided against having an 



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atmosphere, for the same reason. I don't know 
why people do those things to rae. 

All I -ask is to be left alone to write science- 
fledon when I get ideas that intrlgile me. How 
can I write -with the Moon shooting radar at ma 
and I don*t know what-all else happening around 
Orion? I rffiver look up any more. 

Well, I was born, grew a while, and here I am. 

That looks unsatisfactory, even to me. A bi- 
ography ought to have more details in it, but the, 
trouble is. I don't know uiFiat details. Things 
that interest me don't always interest other 
people. I 'am five feet something — I'm not sure 
exactly — weigh 135, slender as a reed, and am 
deeply attached to a small dark moustache 
named Quentin. Went to school, Worked abor- 
tively at various things. Wrote. Had army 
service, Since then, my ambition is to be as 
phenomenally lazy as possible. 

Part of the year I live on — or, rather, over- 
looking — the Hudson River, far enough away 
from New York to be in the country. As this is 
written, though, it's winter, so I'm in California, 
catching up with my sleep and staying warm 
at^the same time. 

eels and soft-shell crabs— not to wear around 
What else? I hate shoes and neckties. I like 
my neck, of course, but to eat. C. L. Moore Is 
my favorite author- And I think that's all— ex- 
cept for the date of my demtse, which I don't 
know yet. But you can't have everything, can 
you? 

— Henry Kuttner 



SPEAKING FOR 
AMERICA! 




"America became great by being a secure haven lor 
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together in harmony. Into the plain word AMERICAN 
li (used all me ideals, hopes, inspiration and faith of 
our people." — " 




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U rou naffer with attacks of Asthma so terrible yog 
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Address; 

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308-T Frontier Bldg. 
!«2 Niagara Street Bgffalo I. K. r. 



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CHANGE A 

TIRE 
AT NIGHT... 




1 Most any motorist can change a (ire. But few can 
* change ic at night with top speed, efficiency — and 
lately! Night tire-changing can be hazardous — but 
"Eveready" flashlights can reduce the danger. First 
principle, says the American Automobile Assn., is . . . 




2 Park off the highway. N 
straight stretch of road. If y< 



i best place is on a 
must park on a curve, 
a light should be set on the road some distance back. 
Be sure neither you nor a bystander blocks off the view 
of your tail-light! 



3 Keep all your tire-changing tools tied or 
together, where you can pick them up without 
searching or fumbling. Remove your spare before lack- 
ing up car — tugging might push car off tack. If alone, 
set flashlight on a Stone in convenient position. 



r 



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EVEREADY 



WDNDf 



UFIKUS